Tides of Light


Bantam Spectra Books by Gregory Benford


ACIIOSS THE SEA OF SUNS

GIlEAT SKY IllVEil

HEAilT OF THE COMET (with David Brin)

IN THE OCEAN OF NIGHT

IF THE STAllS AIlE GODS


OFTIDES

LIGHT


Gregory Benford


BANTAM BOOKS


TORONTO ° NEW YORK ° LONDON · SYDNEY · AUCKLAND


This novel is
for two dreamers
who nonetheless get their
numbers right:

Charles
N. Brown and

Marvin Minsky



TIDES
OF LIGHT

A Bantam Spectra Book / February 1989

All
rights reserved.
Copyright © 1989 by Abbenford Associates.
No part
of this book may be reproduced or
transmitted in any form or by any
means, electronic or mechanical,
including photocopying, recording, or by
any information storage and retrieval
system, without permission
in writing from
the publisher.
For information
address: Bantam
Books.

Library
of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

	Benford, Gregory, 1941-
Tides
of light.

I. Title.
	PS3552.E542T53 1989	813'.54 88-7545
	ISBN 0-553-05322-1

Published
simultaneonsly in the United States and Canada

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PRINTED iN THE UNITED STATES
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WAK 0 9 8
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3 2
1


PART ONE -- ABRAHAM'S STAR

ONE

The Cap'n liked to walk the hull.
It was the only place where he could feel truly alone. Inside Argo there was always the rustle of movement, the rub of humanity
kept two years in the narrow though admittedly pleasant
confines of a starship.
And worse, when he was inside, someone could always interrupt
him. The Family was getting better at leaving him alone in
the early morning, he had to give them that. He had carefully
built up a small legend about his foul temper just after he awoke,
and it was beginning to pay off. Though children might still rush
up to him and blurt out a question, lately there had always been
an adult nearby to tug the offending youth away.
Killeen disliked using implied falsehoods--he was no more
irritable in the morning than at any other time but it was the
only way he could think to get some privacy. So no one hailed him
over ship's comm when he was out here. And of course, no ship's
officer would dare pass through the lock and seek to join him.
And now there was a much better reason not to come out
here. Hull-walking just made you a better target beneath the
ever-watching eyes above.
Out here. Killeen had been thinking so firmly about his problems
that he had, as was often the case, completely forgotten to
admire the view. Or to locate their enemy escort.
His first impression, as he raised his head to let in all the
sweep of light around him, was of a seething, cloud-shrouded sky.
He knew this was an illusion, that this was no planetary sky at all,
and that the burnished hull of the Argo was no horizon.
But the human mind persisted in the patterns learned as a


2
	Gregory Benford


child. The glowing washes of blue and pink, ivory and burnt
orange, were not clouds in any normal sense. Their phosphorescence
came from entire suns they had engulfed. They were not
water vapor, but motley swarms of jostling atoms. They spilled
forth light because they were being intolerably stimulated by the
stars they blanketed.

And no sky back on Snowglade had ever crackled with the
trapped energy that flashed fitfully between these clouds. Killeen
watched a sprinkle of bluehot light near a large, orange blob. Its
wobbly curves fattened like ribbed, bruised sausages. It coiled,
clotted seintillant ridges working with snakelike torpor, and then
burst into luridly tortured fragments.

Could this be the weather of the stars? Snowglade had suffered
from a elimate that could turn suddenly vicious, and Killeen
supposed the same could be true on the unimaginably larger scale
between suns. Since he didn't understand the way planets made
weather, or the complex fabric of tides and currents, air and
water, it was no great leap for him to suppose some similar
shadowed mystery might apply to the raging lives of stars.

Anger forked through this sky. Behind them spun the crimson
disk of the Eater, a great gnawing mouth. It ate suns whole and
belched hot gas. In Argo's flight from Snowglade, which swam
near the Eater, they had beaten out against streaming, infalling
dust that fed the monster. Its great disk was like burnt sugar at
the rim, reddening steadily toward the center. Closer in swirled
crisp yellow, and nearer still a bluewhite ferocity lived, an enduring
fireball.

Looking outward, Killeen could see on the grandest scale the
structure his Aspects told him should be there. The entire galaxy
lurked like a silvery ghost beyond the swarthy dustlanes. It, like
the Eater, was a disk--but incomparably greater. Killeen had seen
ancient pictures of the regions beyond the Center, a lake of stars.
But that lake did not ripple and churn. Here tides of light swept
the sky, as though some god had chosen Center as her final
incandescent artwork. Their target star spun ahead, a mote among

wrack and storm, and all their hopes now bore upon it.

And floating in this seethe, their enemy.

He squinted, failed to find it. Argo was nearing the verge of a
jetblack cloud. The distant mech vehicle probably lay somewhere
within the obliterating darkness there. Abraham's Star was struggling
free of the massive shroud. Soon Argo could peer through
the shredding fringes of the cloud to find her planets.


	TIDES OF LIGHT
	3


A notion tugged at Killeen but he shrugged it aside, caught up
in the spectacle all around him. The heavens worked with ribbed
and scaly light, like luminescent beasts drowning in inky seas.

What were the chances, he wondered, that merely showing
himself out here would tempt the mech vehicle to skewer him
with a bolt? No one knew--which, in the paradoxical logic of
leadership, was why he had to do it.

Killeen had started this hull-walking ritual a year before, at
the urging of one of his principal Aspects, a truly ancient encased
personality named Ling. Revered and respected, the Aspect had
been given to Killeen by the Family with high attendant ceremony
in Argo's central hall. Ling was the last remaining true
starship Cap'n in the Family chip inventory. The micromind had
commanded a forerunner of Argo and had exciting though often
unintelligible yarns to tell.


Yes, and following my advice is bringing a reward.


Thinking about Ling had brought the Aspeet's firm, Cap'nly voice
sounding in Killeen's mind. He let a skeptical frown cross his
face and Ling picked it up.


You make this hull-walk serve the added purpose of displaying
your personal calm and unconcern in the face of the enemy.


Killeen said nothing; his sour doubt would faintly trickle down
to Ling, like runoff from a rainstorm. He kept up his pace, making
sure his boots got a firm magnetic clamp on the hull before he
freed the following leg. Even if he kicked himself free of the hull,
there was a good chance that his low trajectory would carry him
into a strut or an antenna downhull from him. That would save the
embarrassment which he had often suffered when he had started
this ritual. Five times he had been forced to haul himself back to
the ship using a thrown, magnet-tipped line. He was sure crew
had seen it, too, and had gotten a good laugh.

Now he made it a point not to have his line even within easy
reach on his belt. He kept it in a leg pocket. Anyone watching him
from the big agro pods downhull would see their Cap'n loping
confidently over the broad curves of the Argo, with no visible
safety line. A reputation for dashing confidence in his own abilities
might come in handy in the difficult times to come.

Killeen turned so that he was facing the pale yellow disk of


4
	Gregory Benford


Abraham's Star. They had known for months that this was the
destination of their years-long voyage a star similar to Snowglade's.
Shibo had told him that planets orbited here as well.

Killeen had no idea as yet what kind of planets these might be,
or whether they held any shelter for his Family. But Argo's
automatic program had brought them here, following knowledge
far older than their forefathers. Perhaps the ship knew well.

In any case, the Family's long rest was nearing an end. A time
of trials was coming. And Killeen had to be sure his people were
ready.

He found himself loping harder, barely skimming the hull. His
thoughts impelled him forward, oblivious to his loud panting
inside the cramped helmet. The rank musk of his own sweat
curled up into his nostrils, but he kept going. The exercise was
good, yes, but it also kept his mind away from the invisible threat
above. More important, the hard pace cleared his mind for thinking
before he began his official day.

Discipline was his principal concern. With Ling's help he had
drilled and taught, trying to fathom the ancient puzzles of the
Argo and help his otTcers become skilled spacers.

This was his ambiguous role: Cap'n of a crew that was also
Family, a circumstance which had not arisen in the memory of
anyone living. He had only the dry advice of his Aspects, or the
lesser Faces, to guide him--ancient voices from eras marked by
far greater discipline and power. Now humanity was a ragged
remnant, scurrying for its life among the corners of a vast machine
civilization that spanned the entire Galactic Center. They were
rats in the walls.

Running a starship was a vastly different task from maneuvering
across the bare, blasted plains of distant Snowglade. The
patterns the Families had set down for centuries were nominally
based on crewing a ship, but these years under way had shown
how large the gap was. In a tight engagement, when the crew had
to react with instant fortitude and precision, Killeen had no idea
how they would perform.

Nor did he know what they would have to do. The dim worlds
that circled Abraham's Star might promise infinite danger or easy
paradise. They had been set on this course by a machine intelligence
of unknown motives, the Mantis. Perhaps the dispersed,
anthology intelligence of the Mantis had sent them to one of the
few humanly habitable planets in the Galactic Center. Or perhaps


	TIDES OF LIGHT
	5


they were bound for a site which fitted the higher purposes of the
mech civilization itself.

Killeen bit his lip in fretted concentration as he loped around
the Argo's stern and rounded back toward midships. His breath
came sharply and, as always, he longed to be able to wipe his

brow.

He had gambled the Family's destiny on the hope that ahead
lay a world better than weary, vanquished Snowglade. Soon now
the dice would fall and he would know.

He puffed heavily as he angled around the bulbous lifezones--huge
bubbles extruded from the sleek lines of the Argo, like the
immense, bruised bodies of parasites. Inside, their opalescent
walls ran with dewdrops, shimmering moist jewels hanging a bare
finger's width away from hard vacuum. Green fronds pressed here
and there against the stretched walls--a sight which at first had
terrified Killeen, until he understood that somehow the rubbery
yet glassy stuff could take the pokes and presses of living
matter without splitting. Despite the riot of plant growth inside,
there was no threat of a puncture. Argo had attained a balance
between life's incessant demands and the equally powerful commandments
of machines--a truce humanity had never managed
on Snowglade.

As he slogged around the long, curved walls of the lifezones,
here and there a filmy face peered out at him. A crewwoman
paused in her harvesting of fruit and waved. Killeen gave her a
clipped, reserved salute. She hung upside down, since the life
bubbles did not share Argo's spin.

To her his reflecting suit would look like a mirror-man taking
impossibly long, slowmotion strides, wearing leggings of hullmetal,
with a shirt that was a mad swirl of wrinkled clouds and stars. His
suit came from Argo's ancient stores and had astonishing ability to
resist both the heat and cold of space. He had seen a midshipman
carelessly back into a gas torch in one, and feel not a flicker of the
blazing heat through its silvery skin.

His Ling Aspect commented:


A reflecting suit is also good camouflage against our mech
companion.


This sort of remark meant that the Aspect was feeling its cabin
fever again. Killeen decided to go along with its attempt to strike
up a conversation; that might help him tickle forth the slippery


6
	Gregory Benford


idea that kept floating nearly into consciousness. "The other day
you said it wasn't interested in me anyway."


I still believe so. It came upon us as though it would attack, yet
over a week has passed as it patiently holds its distance in a
parallel path.


"Looks like it's armed."


True, but it holds its fire. That is why I advised you to hull-walk
as usual. The crew would have noticed any reluctance.


Killeen grumbled, "Extra risk is dumb."


Not in this case. I know the moods of crew, particularly in
danger. Heed me! A commander must imbue his crew with
hope in the mortal circumstances of war. So the eternal questions
voice themselves again: "Where is our leader? Is he to be
seen? What does he say to us? Does he share our dangers?"
When you brave the hull your crew watches with respect.


Killeen grimaced at Ling's stentorian tones. He reminded
himself that Ling had led far larger ships than Argo. And crew were
peering out the frosted walls of the lifezones to watch their Cap'n.

Still, the magisterial manner of Ling rankled. He had lost
several minor Faces when Ling's chip was added, because there
wasn't enough room in the slots aligned along his upper spine.
Ling was embedded in an old, outsized pentagonal chip, and had
proved to be both a literal and figurative pain in the neck.

He gazed once more at the streaming radiance that forked
fitfully in the roiling sky. Therhe saw it. The distant speck held
still against a far-passing luminescence. He watched the mote for a
long moment and then shook his fist at it in frustration.


Good. Crew like a Captain who expresses what they all feel.


"It's what I feel, dammit!"


Of course. That is why such gestures work so well.


"You calc'late everything?"


Nobbut you wished to learn Captaincy. This is the way to do so.


	TIDES OF LIGHT
	7


Irritated, Killeen pushed Ling back into his mind's recesses.
Other Aspects and Faces clamored for release, for a freshening
moment in his mind's frontal lobes. Though they caught a thin
sliver of what Killeen sensed, the starved interior presences hungered
for more. He had no time for that now. The slippery idea
still eluded him and, he realized, had provoked some of the
irritation he had taken out on Ling.

If crew were already harvesting, then Killeen knew he had
been running a bit too long. He deliberately did not use the time
display in his suit, since the thing was ageold and its symbols were
a confusing scramble of too much data, unreadable to his untutored
mind. Instead he checked his inboard system. The timer stuttered
out a useless flood of information and then told him he had been
running nearly an hour. He did not know very precisely how long
an hour was, but as a rule of thumb it was enough.

He wrenched the airlock stays free, prepared to enter, looked
up for one last glimpse of the vista--and the idea popped forth,
unbidden.

In a heartbeat he turned the notion over and over, inspecting
every nuance of it, and knew it was right.

He studied the sky, saw the course Argo would follow in the
gradually lifting gloom of the cloud-shadow. If they had to, there
was enough in the sky to navigate by eye.

He cycled through the axial lock, passed quickly through the
tight zero-g vapor shower, and was back inside the spun-up corridors
within a few minutes.

Lieutenant Cermo was waiting for him at the midships gridpoint.
He saluted and said nothing about Killeen's lateness, though his
irrepressible grin told Killeen that the point had not slipped by.
Killeen did not return the smile and said quietly, "Sound quarters."
The way Cermo's mouth turned down in utter dismayed
surprise brought forth a thin smile from Killeen. But by that time
Cermo had hurriedly turned away and tapped a quick signal into
his wrist command, and so missed his Cap'n's amusement entirely.


Chapter TWO

He directed the assault from the hull itselfnot so much because
of Ling's windbag advice, Killeen told himself, but because he
truly did get a better feel of things out there.
So he stood, anchored by magnetic boots, as sunrise came.
Not the coming of sunlight from a rotating horizon, a spreading
glory at morning. Instead, this false dawn came as a gradual
waxing radiance, seen through billowing, thinning grit.
Killeen had noticed that soon Argo would pass across the last
bank of clotted dust that hid Abraham's Star from them. The
swelling sunburst would come as the ship very nearly eclipsed the
mech vehicle that was escorting them inward toward the star.
--Still don't see why the mech won't adjust for that,-- Cermo
sent from the control vault.
"It will. Question is, how fast?"
Killeen felt relaxed, almost buoyant. He had committed them,
after a week of vexed, fretting worry. If they entered the inner
system around Abraham's Star with an armed mech vessel alongside,
a mere quick command from elsewhere could obliterate Argo. Best take it out now. If that proved impossible, this was the
time to know it.
He searched the quilted sky for a single figure.
--Approaching on assigned path,-- Gianini sent.
This young woman had been chosen by Jocelyn to close with
the mech. Killeen recalled that she came from Family Rook and
knew her to be an able crewwoman. He followed standard practice
in letting his lieutenants choose specific crew for jobs; they
knew the intricacies of talent and disposition far better than he.
Gianini had fought mechs back on Snowglade, was seasoned and
twice wounded.
And Killeen found her--a distant dot that sparkled amber and
yellow as Abraham's Star began to cut through the shrouding
clouds that hung over his shoulder, filling a quarter of the sky.

	TIDES OF LIGHT
	9

The brooding mass had lightened from ebony to muted gray as it
thinned. Shredded fingers of starshine cut the spaces around Argo. And Gianini sped toward the mech, using the sudden rise of
brilliance at her back to mask her approach.
A tactic. A stratagem. A life.
A necessary risk, because the mech was too far away to hit
with their weapons, which were designed for battles fought on
land. Argo herself carried no weaponry, no defenses.
--I'll hit it with microwave and IR, then the higher stuff.--Gianinfs
voice was steady, almost unconcerned.
Killeen did not dare reply, and had ordered Cermo not to
allow any transmissions from Argo, lest they attract the mech's
attention in the ship's direction. Gianinfs directed transmissions
back could not alert the mech vehicle, though.
As they had calculated, Abraham's Star began to brim with
waxy radiance. Rays refracted through Killeen's helmet, sprinkling
yellow across his lined face. He found he was clenching and
unclenching his hands futilely.
Do it now, he thought. Now! --Firing.-
He strained, but could see no change in either the dot that was
Gianini or the dark point where the mech moved against the blue
background glow of a molecular cloud.
--I can't see any effect.--
Killeen grimaced. He wanted to give an order, if only to
release his own tension. But what would he say? To be careful? A
stupid, empty nattering. And even sending it might endanger her.
--Closing pretty fast.--
Gianini was a softening yellow dot approaching a vague darkness.
Action in space had an eerie, dead-silent quality that unnerved
Killeen. Death came sliding ballistically into the fragile
shells that encased moist life.
Starshine from behind him swelled and blared and struck hard
shadows across Argo's hull. He felt how empty and barren space
was, how it sucked human action into its infinite perspectives.
Gianini was a single point among a countless plethora of similar
meaningless points.
He shook off the thought, aching to do something, to be
running and yelling and firing in the midst of a suddenly joined
battle that he could feel.
But above him the dots coalesced in utter silence. That was all.
No fervor, nothing solid, no sure reality.


	10
	Gregory Benford

Burnished sunlight raked the hull around him. Time ticked on.
He squinted at the sky and tried to read meaning into mere
twitches of random radiance.
--Well, if that don't damn all.-
What? he thought. His heart leaped to hear Gianinfs voice,
but her slow, almost lazy words could mean anything.
--This thing's had its balls cut off. Ruined. All those antennas
and launchers we saw in closeup, 'member? Their power source is
all blowed away. Nothin' here that works 'cept for some drive
chambers and a mainmind. Guess that's what led it our way.--
Killeen felt a breath he had been holding forever rush out of
his chest. He chanced a transmission. "You're sure it can't shoot?"
--Naysay. Somethin' pranged it good. A real mess it is here.--"Back
off, then."
--You want I should skrag the mainmind?-
"Yeasay. Leave a charge on it."
--Doin' that now.--
"Get clean clear before you blow it."
--I'll put it close, be sure.-- "No contact, just leave it--"
In Killeen's ears screamed the horrible sound of circuit
ringing--a long high oscillating twang as a lead of electrical energy bled off into space, acting as an involuntary antenna as raw power
surged through it.
"Gianini! Gianini! Answer!"
Nothing. The ringing wail steepled down into low frequencies,
an ebbing, mournful song--and was gone.
"Cermo! Suit trace!"
--Getting nothing.-- Cermo's voice was firm and even and
had the feel of being held that way no matter what.
"Damn--the mainmind."
--Figure it was on a trigger mine?---"Must've."
--Still nothing.--"Damn!"
--Maybe the burst just knocked out her comm.--
"Let's hope. Send the backup."
Cermo ordered a crewman out to recon the mech vehicle. But
the man found Gianini floating away from the wrecked craft, her
systems blown, her body already cold and stiff in the unforgiving
va-etlnm.

Chapter THREE

Killeen walked stiffly down the ceramo-corridors of the Argo, his
face as unyielding as the walls. The operation against the mech
was a success, in the sense that a plausible threat to the ship was
removed. They had detonated the charge Gianini had left behind
on the mech, and it had blown the vehicle into a dozen pieces.
But in fact it had been no true danger, and Killeen had lost a
crewwoman discovering that fact.
As he replayed their conversation in his mind he was sure he
could have said or done nothing more, but the result was the
same a second's carelessness, some pointless close approach to
the mainmind of the vehicle, had fried Gianini. And had lessened
Family Bishop that much more, by one irreplaceable individual.
Numbering fewer than two hundred, they were perilously
close to the minimum range of genotypes which a colony needed.
Any fewer, and future generations would spiral downward, weighed
by genetic deficiencies.
This much Killeen knew, without understanding even a smattering
of the underlying science. Argo's computers held what they
called "DNA database operations." There was a lab for biowork.
But Family Bishop had no Aspects who knew how to prune genes.
Basic bioengineering was of marginal use. He had no time and
even less inclination to make more of such issues.
But Gianini, lost Gianini-he could not so brusquely dismiss
her memory by seeing her as simply a valuable carrier of genetic
information. She had been vibrant, hardworking, able--and now
she was nothing. She had been chipstored a year ago, so her
abilities survived as a spectral legacy. But her ghostly Aspect might not be revived for centuries.
Killeen would not forget her. He could not.
As he marched stiffly to his daily rounds--delayed by the
assault--he forced the somber thoughts away from him. There was
time for that later.

11


	12
	Gregory Benford


You are acting wisely. A commander can feel remorse and can
question his own orders--but he should never be seen to be
doing that by his crew.


Killeen gritted his teeth. A sour bile settled in his mouth and
would not go away.

His Ling Aspect was a good guide in all this, but he still
disliked the calm, sure way the ancient Cap'n laid out the precepts
of leadership. The world was more complex, more darkly
crosscurrented, than Ling ever allowed.


You assume too much. I knew all the tides that sweep you,
when I was clothed in flesh. But they are often hindrances, not
helps.


'Tll keep my 'hindrances,' little Aspect!"

Killeen pushed Ling away. He had a role to fulfill now and the
small chorus of microminds that he felt calling to him could be of
no help. He had followed Ling's advice and decided to continue
with the regular ship's day, despite the drama of the assault.
Returning to ordinary routine, as though such events were within
the normal course of a ship's life, would help settle the crew.

So he had told Cermo to carry on as planned. Only now did he
realize what that implied.

Killeen rounded a corner and walked toward the open bay
where the crew of the morning's watch waited. Halfway there
Cermo greeted him with, "Punishment hour, sir?"

Killeen stopped himself from clenching his jaws and nodded,
reealling the offense from yesterday.

Cermo had caught a crewwoman in the engine module. Without
conferring with his Cap'n, Cermo had hauled her--a stringy,
black-haired woman named Radanan--uneeremoniously out into
the lifezone, barking out his relish at the catch. The deed was
publicly exposed before Killeen had a chance to find other means
to deal with it. He had been forced to support his officer in the
name of discipline; his Ling Aspect had drilled that principle into
him.

"Yeasay. Proceed."

"Could give her more, y'know."

"I said proceed."

He had firmly resolved to speak as little as possible to his
officers during ordinary ship operations. He was like a drinker


	TIDES OF LIGHT
	13


who could not trust himself to stick to moderate amounts. In
Family meetings he gave himself a little leeway, though. There,
eloquence and even outright oration served his ends. He knew
he was not very good at talk, and the briefer he was the more
effect it had. As Argo had approached this star system he had
gotten more and more terse. There were days when most of the
crew heard him say only a short "ah-mmm" as he pointedly
cleared his throat at some demonstrated inadequacy.

As they made their way to the central axis Killeen set his face
like stone. He was ashamed of his aversion to watching punishment.
He knew that to punish a crewmember was a sign of his
own failure. He should have caught the slide in behavior before it
got this far. But once the event had occurred there was no turning
back.

In this case, Radanan had been trying to sneak into the
thrumming dangers of the engine zone as they decelerated. This
alone would have been a mild though flagrantly stupid transgression.
But when Cermo caught her she had bristled, bitterly angry,
and had called on some friends nearby, trying to provoke a minor
mutiny.


A wise Captain hands out rougher justice than this.


His Ling Aspect offered this without being summoned. "She
just screamed and swore some, is all," Killeen subvocalized. "And
was stupid enough to take a poke at Cermo."


Mutiny is a capital offense.


"Not on the Argo."


She'll incite others, harbor resentment--


"She was looking for food, just a minor--"


You'll lose control


Killeen damped the Aspect's self-righteous bark into silence.
Evidently Radanan had been looking for a way to scavenge
something extra, though Killeen could not imagine what she thought
she might find. Usually, crew were caught pilfering food, an
outcome of the strict rationing Killeen had imposed for a year now.


	14
	Gregory Benford

The watch crew stood a little straighter as Killeen came into
the area. Radanan was at the center of a large circle, since this was
both a shipboard matter and a Family reproach. She looked down
dejectedly. Her eyes seemed to have accepted already the implications
of the cuffs around her wrists that held her firmly to a
mooring line.
Cermo barked out the judgment. Two crewmen stood ready to
hold Radanan at the elbows in case she should jerk away from the
punishment. She bleakly watched as Cermo brought out the short,
gleaming rod.
Killeen made himself not grit his teeth. He had to enforce his
own rules or else nothing he said would be believed. And he did
blame himself. The woman was not overly bright. She had originally
been a member of Family Rook.
By tribal consent, all those who had chosen to set off in the Argo had realigned, so that they constituted a new Family composed
of the Bishops, Rooks, and Kings. They had elected to term
it Family Bishop still, and Killeen had never been sure whether
this was a tribute to him, a Bishop, or a simple convenience.
At any rate, as he watched the hard rod come down upon
Radanan's buttocks, he thought it seemed unlikely that a woman
small-minded enough to venture into dangerous territory in
search of an oddment would benefit from so crude a tactic as
flogging. But tradition was tradition. They had precious little else
to guide them in this vast darkness.
A dozen cuts of the rod as Family punishment, each one
counted out by a midshipman. And as ship's punishment, twelve
more. Radanan held herself rigid for the first six and then began to
jerk, gasps bursting out from behind clenched teeth. Killeen
thought he would have to turn away but he made himself think of
something, anything, while Cermo ran the count to twenty.
Then she collapsed to the deck.
"Belay that!" Killeen said sharply, and the awful business was
over. She had stumbled so that she hung by her wrists. That took
matters beyond anything he would tolerate and gave him grounds
to call it off four strokes short.
He struggled for something to say. "Ah-mmm. Very well,
Lieutenant Cermo. On to the day's orders, then."
Killeen turned and left quickly, hoping that no one noticed
that he was sweating.

Chapter FOUR

He made his way in a sour temper through the slick corridors
connecting the life vault with the central axis spiral. His anger
with himself could find no clear expression. He knew he should
have become hardened to the necessity of imposing punishment.
Barring that, he should have been clever enough to find a way
around the situation that Cermo's quick action had forced on him.
A whiff of sewage wrinkled his nose. He hastened past. All of
third deck was sealed off. Even so, some sludge had leaked into
ventilation shafts here, and crew somehow never got it all cleaned
out. The problem had started a year ago with dogged toilets.
Attempts at repair damaged the valves and servos. The xvaste had
spread through the third deck until work details gagged, fainted,
and refused to go in. Killeen had been forced to seal the deck,
losing bunking quarters and shops.
He irritably demanded of his Ling Aspect, "You're sure you
can't remember any more about pipes and such?"
Ling's reply was stony:

No. I have informed you often enough that I was brought up
through the combat ranks, not the engineers. If you had not
let ignorant crew tinker with the problem

"I got no engineers know 'bout that, in chip or living. You savvy
so much, why can't--"

If you'll read the ship's flow diagram--

"Can't! They're too 'plexified. It's like tellin' what a woman
thinks by studyin' every hair on her head."

Even a ship tike this, though far advanced beyond some I
commanded, requires intelligence to run. If you'll institute the
study sessions I recommended long ago

15


	16
	Gregory Benford


"Make Family sit and decipher for weeks?" Killeen laughed
dryly. "You saw how far I got with that."


Your people are unlike anyone I ever commanded, I'll grant
that. You are from a society that scavenged and stole for a
fiving--


"Won battles 'gainst the mechs, you mean. The food and 'quip-ment
we got was war booty."


Call it what you will. Such training is a far cry from the disci-

pline and skill needed to fix even a broken sewer connection.
Still, with time and proper training--


Killeen piped the Ling Aspect back down again; he had heard
all this before. Ling knew of the Chandelier Age, xvhen humans had
great cities in space. Cap'ns had made year-long voyages between
Chandeliers, braving the increasing mech raids. Ling himself had
functioned then as a full interactive Personality. The Family could
no longer maintain Personalities, so Ling xvas available only as the
lesser, truncated projection--an Aspect.

Ling invariably recommended the strict discipline necessary in
the Chandelier Age. Superimposed on that, though, was an older
theme. The original, living Ling had come from the fabled Great
Times, or possibly even beyond. The Aspect's memory flattened
time distinctions, so it was hard to tell which facet of Ling was
speaking. The sensation of having at the back of his head a voice
from an unimaginably grand past, when humans had lived free of
mech dominance, made Killeen uneasy. He felt absurd, maintaining
the persona of a confident Cap'n when he sensed the supremely
greater power of lost ages.

As he climbed up the axis, saluting crew as he passed, he was
uncomfortably aware of the scurfs and dings the walls had suffered.
Here a yellow stain covered a hatchxvay. There someone
had tried to cut away a chunk of hardboard and had given up
halfway through, leaving a ragged sawtooth slash. Random chunks
of old servos and electronics packages had been chucked aside and
left, once they proved useless for whatever impulse had made
crew yank them out of some locker.

Argo's systems could handle nearly any threat, but not the
insidious barrage of ignorance that Family Bishop served up.
Their lifelong habits told them to strip away and carve up, haul off
and make do, confident that mech civilization would unthinkingly


	TIDES OF LIGHT
	17


replenish everything. Scarcely the talents appropriate to a starship
crew. It had taken Killeen quite a while, and some severe public
whippings, to get them to stop trying to harvest random gaudy
bits from the ship's operating parts.

He would have to order a general cleanup again. Once clutter
accumulated, crew slid back into their old habits. The last week,
distracted by the mech escort, he had let matters slide by.

Breakfast was waiting in his cramped quarters. He slurped up
a hot broth of savory vegetables and gnawed at a tough grain cube.
The day's schedule shimmered on the tabletop, a 3D graphic
display of tasks to be done about the ship.

He did not know how this was done, nor did he care to learn.
These last years had so saturated him with the Byzantine lore of
the Argo that he was content to master what he had to, and leave
much else to the crew. Shibo had ferreted out this particular
nicety; she had an unerring instinct for the ship's control systems.
He wished she were here to share breakfast, but she was on watch
already at the helm.

A knock at the door proved to be Cermo. Killeen had to smile
at the man's promptness; on Snowglade he had been called Cermo-the-Slow.
Something in Argo's constrictions had brought out a
precision in the man that contrasted wildly with his muscular
bulk. Cermo now wore an alert expression on a face which Killeen
had for so long seen as smooth and merry. Short rations had thrust
the planes of his cheeks up through round hills of muscle.

"Permission to review the day, Cap'n?" Cermo asked snappily.
"Certainly." Killeen gestured to a seat across the table.
Killeen wondered idly if one of Cermo's Aspects had been a
starship crewman. That might explain how naturally the man
adjusted to ship life. Cermo's round, smooth face split with a
fleeting grin of anticipation whenever Killeen gave an order, as
though it summoned up pleasant memories. Killeen envied that.
He had never gotten along well with his Aspects.

Cermo launched into a summary of the minor troubles that
each day brought. They were all hard-pressed, running a huge
star-sailing machine bequeathed to them by their ancient forefathers
and foremothers. Though each crewman carried Aspects of
former Family members--which could help with some of the
arcane ship's lorevexing problems cropped up daily.

As Killeen talked with Cermo his left hand automatically tapped
his cube of baked grain on the shiny ceramic table. Two years
before, a crop-tending crewmember had been browsing among


	18
	Gregory Benford


the agricultural storehouse. She had mistakenly read a label wrong
and not bothered to consult with one of her Aspects to get it right.
Blithely she had accidentally released a self-warming vial of frozen
soil-tenders. They were ugly, slimy things, and the woman had
been so badly startled that she dropped the vial. Some had inched
their way to freedom before the crewwoman raised the alarm. In
the rich loam of the gardens, carrying with them not only their
own genes but also an anthology of lesser mites, the worms
wreaked havoc.

Killeen's rapping brought two small, squirming weevils wriggling
from the tan grain cube. He swept away the tiny things and
bit into the hard, tasty knot. It was hopeless to try to wipe them
out now that they had spread. As well, he still objected to harming
living things. Machines were their true enemy. If lesser life
got out of its rightful place, thanks to human fumbling, that was no
excuse to strike against the fabric of living beings. To Killeen this
was not a moral principle but an obvious fact of his universe, of
unspoken Family lore.

Cermo sat uncomfortably in a small chair, cheerfully jawing on
about the woman's punishment and all the supposed benefits of
discipline that would unfold from it.

He should be the one carrying Ling, not me, Killeen thought.
Or maybe it was easier to take a hard line when final responsibility
wasn't yours.

He had seen that years before, when Fanny was Cap'n. Her
lieutenants had often favored tough measures, but Fanny usually
took a more moderate, cautious course. She had kept in mind the
consequences of decisions, when an error could doom them all.

It occurred to Killeen that his own hesitant way in those days
might have been what made Fanny advance him up the Family's
little pyramid of power. Maybe she had mistaken that for a wary
sense of proportion. The idea amused him, but he dismissed it;
Fanny's judgment had been far better than his, better than that of
anyone he had ever known except for his father, Abraham. Killeen
had enjoyed some success, due mostly to outright luck, but he
knew he could never equal her abilities.

"The Rooks 'n Kings always grumble 'bout a whipping if it's

one their folk," Cermo said. "But they get the point."

"Still bitching over how I chose my lieutenants?"

He had made Cermo and Jocelyn, both Bishops, his immediate
underofficers. Lieutenant Shibo was both Chief Executive
Officer and Pilot. She was the last survivor of Family Knight.


	TIDES OF LIGHT
	19


Though she had lived with the Rooks, everyone considered her a
Bishop because she was Killeen's lover.

Of such Byzantine issues was policy made. In the ditTcult days
following liftoff from Snowglade, Killeen had tried using Rooks
and Knights as Lieutenants. They simply didn't measure up. He
had wondered if their time living in a settled village had softened
them. Still, he saw that his decisions had not been politically wise.
Abraham would have finessed the matter in some inconspicuous
way.

"Yeasay," Cermo said, "but no worse than usual."

"Keep your ear on the deck. Let me know the scuttlebutt."
"Sure. There's some who talk more'n they work."
"That's private Family business."
"Could use a touch of the crop, I'd say."

Experience told him that it was best to let Cermo go on for a
while, exhaust the subject of crew discipline. Still, he wished he
were breakfasting with Shibo, whose warm, sure silences he found
such a comfort. They understood each other without the endless
rattle of talk.

"--train 'em, get 'em savvy out the techtalk in ship's computers."
"You think the younger ones'll do better at it?" Killeen asked.
"Yeasay. Shibo, she says--"

Cermo was always coming up with another scheme to get more
of the Family trained. The simple fact was that they were hardened
people and didn't learn technical matters easily. Families
traded knowhow, but their ageold tradition was as craftsmen and
craftswomen, not as scientists.

He nodded at Cermo's enthusiasm, half-listening, his attention
focused all the while on the incessant ship noises. The muffled
thud of heels, a gurgle of fluids in pipes, a subtle creaking of decks
and joints. But now there was a lower note, coming from the rub
of interstellar dust against the giant balloonlike lifezones.

The strumming sound had gathered over the last weeks, a
deep voice that spoke in subliminal bass notes of the coming of the
beckoning yellow star. Decelerating, Argo swooped among thickening
dustclouds that shrouded this side of the coming sun. Mottled
dustlanes, cinder-dark, cloaked their view of the inner planets.

The low, resonant bass note kept its unnerving, constant pitch.
Sometimes in his sleep he imagined that a slow, solemn voice was
speaking to him, the words drawn into a dull moan that forewarned
doom. Other nights it was a giant's drunken boom hurling
slurred words at him, the tones shaking his body.


	20
	Gregory Benford


He had immediately shrugged off these rough visions; a Cap'n
could not afford to harbor such gloomy and irrational thoughts.
Still, the hum now came creeping into his hands as they rested on
the table. As a boy he had not known the stars were other suns.
The spilling fluid flow of gas and smoldering dust about Galactic
Center had seemed inconsequential, forever silent and distant.

Now the thick churn sang against Argo, a quickening wind
driven by the galactic wheel. The Argo had somehow tapped this
gale, he knew, harnessed its unseen dynamics. The massive, dusty
currents smothered suns and silted planets with grime, so his
Arthur Aspect said. The moaning that ranged and stuttered through
Argo seemed to wail of dead worlds, of silted time, and of the
choked-off visions of lost races he would never know.

The tabletop between them flickered abruptly. Shibo's chiseled
features appeared, flattened and distorted by the angle.
"Pardon," she said when she saw Lieutenant Cermo. "We have
clear view now, Cap'n."

"You see more inner worlds?"

"Aye, a new one. Dust hid it before."

"Good detail?"

"Aye, sir," Shibo said, her glinting eyes betraying a quick,
darting enthusiasm. If it had been just the two of them, she
probably would have thrown in a dry joke.

Killeen made himself take his time finishing the bowl of green
goulash and then savored the last dregs of his tea. He spoke
slowly, almost casually. "Take a sure sighting, using all the
detectors?"

"Course," Shibo said, a small upturning of the corners of
her lips showing that she understood that this show was for
Cermo's benefit.

"Then I'll be along in a bit," Killeen said with unexcited
deliberation. He had seen his father use this ruse long ago in the
Citadel.

Cermo shifted impatiently in his chair. They all wanted to
know to what world two years of voyaging had brought them.
Many still felt that the Mantis had sent them toward a lush, green
world. Killeen was by no means convinced. He trusted no mech.
He still remembered with relish their obliteration of the Mantis in
Argo's exhaust wash at liftoff.

He took his time with the tea, using it to consider the possible
reactions of the Family if their expectations were not met. The
prospect was sobering.


	TIDES OF LIGHT
	21


He debated having another cup of tea. No, that would be too
much torture for Cermothough the man had certainly seemed to
like handing it out to the Radanan woman earlier.

Forgoing the tea, he nonetheless put on his full tunic and
walked rather more slowly than usual around the ship's axis and
up one level.

His officers had already assembled in the control vault when
Killeen arrived. They were staring at the big display screen,
pointing and whispering. Killeen realized that a proper Cap'n
would not allow such milling in the confines of the control vault,
despite the fact that this was a completely natural reaction to years
of long voyaging.

He said sharply, "What? Nobody's got jobs? Lieutenant Joce-lyn,
how's the patching going in the dry zone? Faldez, those pipes
still clogged in the agro funnel?"

His stern voice dispersed them. They left, casting quick glances
back at the display screen. He wanted them to see that he had not
deigned even to look at the image there, but had tended to ship's
business first.

They could not know that he kept his neck deliberately turned
so that temptation would not slide his eyes sideways to catch a
glimpse. He exchanged a few words with several departing officers
to be sure his point was made. Then he turned, pursing his lips to
guard against any expression of surprise that might cross his face,
and stared directly into their destiny.


Chapter FIVE

Two years before, Cap'n Killeen had flinched when he saw the
ruined brown face of his home planet, Snowglade, as Argo lifted
away.
Now, with heady relief, he saw that the shimmering image
before him did not resemble that worn husk. Near its poles small
dabs of bluewhite nestled amid gray icecaps that spread crinkled
fingers toward the waist of the world. But these features came to
him only 'after a striking fact:
"Wrong colors," he said, startled.
Shibo shook her head. "Not all. Ice is dark, yeasay. But middle
is green, wooded---see the big lakes?"
"Pale areas in between look dead."
"Not much vegetation," Shibo conceded.
"What could cause . . . ?" Killeen frowned, realizing that he
would need to know some planetary evolution, in addition to
everything else.
Shibo said, "Could be these clouds did that? Dust killed plants,
dirtied up the ice, turned it gray."
Killeen sensed that it would not be wise to admit complete
ignorance in front of Cermo, who had remained.
"Might be. Plenty dust still around. That's why we're coming
in at a steep angle." Killeen studied the planer's crescent for signs
of human life. The nightside was utterly dark, though even if he
had seen lights they might easily have been cities built by mechs.
Cermo said hesitantly, "Sir, I don't understand ....
Normally it was a bad idea to explain the basis of your decisions
to underofficers, his Ling Aspect had said. But it was also a good
idea to train them; the days ahead would be dangerous, and if
Killeen fell, his replacement would need to know many things.
"These little black blotches--see them?" Killeen pointed as the
scale of the viewing screen enlarged, bringing in the hot disk of
the parent star. Beyond it, the broad, banded grins of two silvery

22

	TIDES OF LIGHT
	23

gas giant planets hung against a speckled tapestry of molecular
clouds. Tiny smudges freckled the image, motes that ebbed and
flared from day to day.
"This star, it's ripped apart a passing cloud. There's lots of
these blobs in the plane of the planets."
Killeen paused. The three-dimensional geometry had been
easy for him to see in Aspect-provided simulations, but now it was
hard to make out in a fiat grid projection like this.
"So I directed us in at a steep angle," he said, "cutting down
into that plane. That'll avoid running into small clouds that we
might not detect. Argo won't hold up if we get blindsided by one
of those."
He watched fondly as Shibo's exoskeleton whirred as her hands
passed over the control boards. Its polycarbon lattice made swift,
sure movements. For Killeen one of the many delights of Argo's slow spin was that she seldom needed her mechanical aid except
for quick precision. In Snowglade's heavy gravity she had used it
continually just to keep up. A genetic defect had given her only
normal human strength, which was much less than the Families'
level.
Still, the simple sight of her made him smile. Momentarily the
day's weight lifted.
She brought up wildly different views of the planetary system,
images colored in splashes of violent reds, tawny golds, cool blues.
Killeen knew these arose from different spectra, but could not say
how. They showed grainy specks orbiting between the planets--small
knotty condensations that hailed incessantly in toward all the
stars at Galactic Center. These had been caught by Abraham's
Star and now pelted its planets unmercifully.
"Bet it makes for a dusty sky down there," Shibo said re-fiectively.
She thumbed up a speckled orange display which highlighted
five cometary tails. They lay above and below the plane
of the planetary orbits, gaudy streamers that pointed inward like
accusing fingers.
Killeen caught her meaning. "I don't believe, though," he
made himself go on with casual assurance, "that the dust could
snuff out life. This planet's suffered infalling grime before. You can
see the forests have survived. It can still shelter us."
Shibo gave him a wry sidelong glance. She sometimes fed him
hints like this, enabling him to seem to have thought problems
through before they came up. It was a great help in slowly
building a crew, Killeen thought, if the Cap'n happened to love


	24
	Gregory Benford


the Chief Executive Officer. He resisted the temptation to smile,

sure that Cermo would guess his thoughts.

"Any moons?" he asked stonily.

"None I can see so far," Shibo said. "There's something else,
though .... "

Her slender arms stretched over the controls, calling forth
functions Killeen could scarcely follow. Far out he saw a nugget of
bronzed hardness.

"A station." She answered his unspoken question.

Cermo gasped. "A . . . a Chandelier?"

"I can't make it out well enough. Could be."

Killeen asked, "Can't we see better? If we wait till we're
closer, could be dangerous."

She thought, punched in an inquiry. "No, not this way. There's
another lensing system, though. Needs be hand-deployed on the
aft hull."

"Do it," Killeen ordered. Of Cermo he asked, "Who's got suit
duty?"

"Besen," Cermo said. "But she's young. I'd--"
"Use the assigned crew. Besen's quick and smart."
"Well, still, Cap'n--"

"They'll never learn if they don't face problems." Killeen could
remember his father saying exactly the same, refusing to shield
Killeen from tough jobs when he was a boy.

He studied the small bronze speck for a long moment, then
asked Shibo to give the natural light view. In true human spectrum
the thing glittered with jewellike warmth, but under maximum
magnification he could make out no structure.

Quite possibly this was a human outpost. Perhaps--Killeen felt
a racing excitement--it was indeed an ancient Chandelier, those
legendary edifices of crystalline perfection.

He had once seen one through a 'scope on Snowglade, so far
away that he could make out no detail. He had caught only the
strange glimmering presence of it, the suspicion of beauty lying
just beyond perception. The possibility of finding something man-made,
hanging in this roiling vault of troubled sky, was enough to
summon up his profound respect and awe for the ancient masters
who had made Argo and the even older Chandeliers. That he
might see one closely--the thought made him lean toward the
screen, as if to force answers from it.

Besen arrived, a young woman of hard eyes and soft, sensuous


	TIDES OF LIGHT
	25


mouth. She had a strict crewlike bearing and came to attention
immediately after entering the control vault. "Sir, I--"

Killeen's son, Toby, dashed in through the hatchway before
she could finish. He was gangly, a full head taller than Besen, and
panted heavily. "I--I heard there's some hullwork needs done."

Killeen blinked. His son was flushed with excitement, eyes
dancing. But no Cap'n could allow such intrusions.

"Midshipman! You were not ordered here. I--"
"I heard Besen's call. Just lemme--"
"You will stand at attention and shut up!"
"Dad, I just want--"

"Stand fast and belay your tongue-wagging. You are crew here,
not my son--got that?"

"Uh... yeah . . . I..."

"Stand on your toes," Killeen said firmly. He clasped his hands
behind him and jutted his chin out at the undisciplined young

man his own boy had become.

"Wh-what?"

"Deaf, are you? You will stand on your toes until I am finished
giving orders for Midshipwoman Besen. Then we will discuss the
proper punishment for you."

Toby blinked, opened his mouth to speak, then thought better
of it. He swallowed and rose on his toes, hands at his side.

"Now," Killeen said slowly to Besen, who had all this time
remained standing at attention, eyes ahead-though at the word
tongue-wagging a quick grin had flashed across her face. "I believe
Officer Shibo has instructions for your task. Perform it with all
good speed."


SIX


Besen proved equal to the demands of finding and extruding from
the ancient ship's hull the needed optieals. They followed her
progress on the main monitor. Killeen gave Toby a dressing-down
in front of Cermo and Shibo, knowing that through Cermo the
story would get through the ship faster than if he had played it
over full comm. All the while Toby had to remain on his toes,
even after the ache began to twist his face with grimaces and
sweat beaded on his brow. In this contest between father and son
there could be only one winner--Family legacy and the demands
of the ship itself required that--but Toby held out as long as he
could. Finally, in the middle of a deliberately protracted lecture
by Killeen on the necessity of following orders exactly, Toby
toppled over, crashing to the deck.

"Very good. Lesson finished," Killeen said, and turned back to
the main display screen.

Besen had adroitly arranged the fibcry, translucent opticals,
which were too delicate to be permanently exposed. She tilted
their platform so they could find the tiny glimmering planet that
lay swaddled in the dusty arms of the star's ecliptic plane.

Shibo brought up an image from it quickly. Killeen watched
the watery light resolve, while Toby got up and Lieutenant
Cermo ordered him back to station. It had been a hard thing to
do but Killeen was sure he was right, and his Ling Aspect
agreed. The inherent contradictions involved in running a crew
that was also a Family demanded that difficult moments not be
avoided.

"What... what's that?" Cermo asked, forgetting that it was a
good rule never to question a Cap'n. Killeen let it pass, because
he could well have asked the same question.

Against a mottled background hung a curious pearly thing, a
disk penetrated at its center by a thick rod. Strange extrusions
pointed from the rod at odd angles. Instinctively Killeen knew it


26


	TIDES OF LIGHT
	27


was no Chandelier. It had none of the legendary majesty and
lustrous webbed beauty.

"Mechwork, could be," he said.

Shibo nodded. "It circles above the same spot on the planet."

"Is there some way we can approach the planet, keeping this
thing always on the other side?" Killeen asked.

He still had only a dim comprehension of orbital mechanics.
His Arthur Aspect had shown him many moving displays of ships
and stars, but little of it had stuck. Such matters were far divorced
from the experience of a man who had lived by running and
maneuvering on scarred plains.

Once, when Killeen had asked if a ship could orbit permanently
over a planet's pole, Ling had laughed at him--an odd
sensation, for the tinny voice seemed to bring forth echoes of other
Aspects Killeen had not summoned up. It had taken him a while
to see that such an orbit was impossible. Gravity would tug down
the unmoving ship.

"I can try for that in the close approach. But even now this
thing could have seen us."

"We will avoid it then, Officer Shibo. Give me a canted orbit,
so this satellite can't see us well."

Shibo nodded, but by her quick, glinting eyes he knew she
understood his true thoughts. Soon he had to decide whether they
would pause in this system at all. The Mantis, that frosty machine
intelligence of Snowglade, had set them on this course. But if the
planet ahead proved to be mech-run, Killeen would take them out
of the system as swiftly as he could. But where was the crucial
choice to be made? No experience or Family lore told him how to
decide, or even when.

He left the control vault and walked through the Argo's tight-wound
spiral corridors. Inspections awaited, and he took his time
with them. He kept his pace measured, not letting his interior
fever of speculation and doubt reveal itself, so that passing crew
would see their Cap'n moving with an unconcerned air.

There was a gathering, humming expectancy in the air as they
plunged toward their target star. Soon they would learn whether
they came to a paradise or to another mech-run world. The
planet's strange, discolored face had given him no answers, and he
would have to deflect questions from Family members who so
desperately wanted assurances.

Walking through a side corridor, he heard a faint scrabbling


	28
	Gregory Benford


noise from an air duct. Instantly he sprang up, unslipped the
grille, and peered inside. Nothing.

The sound, like small feet scrambling away, faded. A micro-mech,
certainly.

Try as they might, the crew had never destroyed all the small
mechs left in the Argo by the Mantis. The remaining machines
were almost certainly unimportant, delegated to do small repairs
and cleaning. Still, their presence bothered Killeen. He knew
how much intelligence could be carried in a fingernail's width;
after all, the chips lodged along his spine held whole personalities.
What were even such small mechs capable of doing?

He had no way of knowing. There had been disturbing incidents
during the voyage, when problems mysteriously cleared up.
Killeen had never known whether the ship had repaired itself with
deep, hidden subsystems, or whether the micromechs were at
work, following their own purposes.

No Cap'n liked to have his ship at the control of anyone but
himself, and Killeen could never rest comfortably until all the
micromechs were gone. But short of some drastic remedy, he saw
no way to rid himself of these nuisances.

Vexed, he took a moment for himself and stopped at a small
side pocket just off the spiral corridor. Here was the only room in
Argo devoted solely to honoring their link to antiquity. It was
large enough for ceremonies such as marriages or deaths, which
Killeen had duly performed in the last two years, and dominated
by two iron-dark slabs on two walls.

These were the Legacies, Argo's computer memories said.
They were inscribed with spidery impressions that glinted in all
colors if a light shone upon them. A digital language, clearly,
though couched in terms even the Argo programs could not
unravel. The ship had severe instructions to preserve these tablets,
embedded in the ceralno-walls, against all depredations.
Clearly here was some incomprehensible clue to the origin of
humans at the Center, and perhaps much else-but Killeen had
no idea how to pursue this avenue.

He came here, instead, to sit on a simple bench and think.
The looming, somber presence of the twin-slab Legacies gave him
a curiously calming sensation of a firm link to a human past
unknown and yet magnificent. In ancient days humans had built
ships like this, plied the thin currents between suns, and lived
well, free of the grinding presence of vastly superior beings.


	TIDES OF LIGHT
	29


Killeen envied the people of that time. He paused now to run
his palms over the smooth surface of the Legacies, as if some
fragment of ageold vision and wisdom could seep into him.

Now that the problems of Cap'ncy beset him, he thought often
of Abraham and all those from times before. They had led the
grudging retreat before the mechs. They had given everything.

To Killeen and the Bishops fate had granted a shred of hope. A
fresh world, new visions. He could liberate his people or he could
lose their last gamble.

And this opportunity had come just one bare generation late.
Abraham would have known what to do now. Abraham had been a
natural leader. His sunbrowned, easy air had commanded without
visible effort. Killeen missed his father far more than he had in the
days after Abraham's disappearance at the Calamity when Citadel
Bishop fell. Time and again he had wondered what his father
would have done ....

He sighed and got to his feet. His hand brushed the Legacies
once more. Then he turned and left, the mottled brown face of the
nearby planet framed in his right eye, so that he could study new
pictures as they arrived.

He was mulling over this vision so deeply that he didn't hear
the running feet in the spiral corridor. A body slammed into his
shoulder and spun him around.

He fetched up against the wall, the wind knocked out of him.

His son peered into his face. "You all right, Dad?"

"I . . . didn't hear . . . you coming,"

Besen and three others came running up, their hot pursuit of
Toby brought to a halt as they saw the Cap'n.

"We were just, y'know, playin' a lfl kickball," Toby said sheepishly,
holding up a small red sphere.

"It's lots fun, on the axis," another boy said.

"Yeasay, funner with low grav," Besen put in. Her eyes were
zesty and bright.

Killeen nodded. "Glad you're keeping your legs in shape," he
said. A meaningful glance at the others prompted them to leave
him alone with Toby.

"You steamed 'bout what happened in the control vault?"

Toby chewed at his lip, conflict warring in his face. "Don't see
why you had to roust me."

"I won't give you the discipline lecture, but--"

"Glad 'bout that. Been hearin' nothin' but that from you."
"You haven't given me much choice."


	30
	Gregory Benford


"And you aren't givin' me much chance."

"How you figure?"

Toby shrugged irritably. "Ridin' me alia time."
"Only when you force me."
"Look, I'm just tryin', that's all."
"Trying too hard, maybe."

"I'm tired out from just sittin'. Wanna do somethin'."
"Only when you're ordered."
"That's it? No"

"And you'll belay your gab when I give you an order, too."

Toby's lip curled. "That your old Ling Aspect talkin', right?
What's 'belay' mean?"

"Means stop. And my Aspects are "

"Ever since you got it, seems like it's givin' the orders."

"I take advice, certainly--"

"Seems like some old fart's runnin' Argo, not my dad."

"I keep my Aspects under control." Killeen heard his voice,
stiff and formal, and made himself say more warmly, "You know
what it's like sometimes, though. You've had two Faces now for--what?--a
year?"

Toby nodded. "I got 'era runnin' okay."

"I'm sure you do. They ride easy?"

"Pretty near. They give me tech stuff, mostly."

"But you can see, then, how you look at some things differently."
"Get tired, just sittin' 'round tryin' to fix stuff."
"When the right time comes--"

Toby's mouth warped with exasperation. "Me an' the guys,

Besen, all of us--we wanna be in on what happens."

"You will be. Just hold back some, yeasay?"

Toby sighed and the tightness drained slowly from his face.
"Dad, it's like there's . . . there's no time anymore when we're
just . . ."

"Just us?"

Toby nodded, swallowing hard.

"You better 'member, I'm Cap'n now a lot more often than I'm
your father."

Toby's jaw stiffened. "Seems you come down special hard on
me lately."

Killeen paused, tried to see if this was so. "Might be."

"I'm just tryin', is all."

"So'm I," Killeen said quietly.

"I don't want to miss out on anythin' when we hit ground."


	TIDES OF LIGHT
	31


"You won't. We'll need everybody."

"So don't leave me out, just 'cause I'm . . . you know."

"My son? Well, you won't stop being that, but sometimes

maybe you'll wish you weren't."

"Never."

"Don't think you'll get special jobs, now."

"I won't."

"Son? None this changes what we are, y'know."

"I guess." Toby's face seemed strained and flattened in the
enameled light. "Only... it's not like the old times."

"When we were runnin' for our lives? I'd say this is sure as
hell better."

"Yeah, but... well..."

"Hard times only look all right when you're lookin' back from
good times."

Toby's face relaxed a fraction. "I guess."
"Between us, time makes no difference."
"I guess."


Chapter SEVEN

Toby went back to his kickball in the spiral axis. Killeen warned
them to be careful and not get in the way of crewwork, but never
considered ordering them to stop. As near as he could tell, humanity
had come into being on the move, designed to chase small
game that bounded around very much like a ball, and he wasn't
about to get in the way of so basic an impulse. It kept the crew in
condition and smoothed out antagonisms, too.
But not all. As he passed a maintenance pocket he came upon
a dozen Family huddled around a small fire of cornhusks and
dried cobs. Killeen disliked the sooty stains this practice left on
the ship's walls, but he understood the reassurance of a communal
fire. In dimmed light the crackling yellow tongues forked up like
wild spirits, casting fluttering shadows among faces intent with
their discussion.
He expected a lot of earnest talk now; the ship echoed with
chatter and hoteyed gossip. To his surprise, this knot of idlers
included First Mate Jocelyn.
"Cap'n!' she hailed. She was a stringy, middle-aged woman
with quick, canny eyes. She wore the coverall appropriate for
shipwork, free of snags and covered with zippered pockets. The
sewing and metal-shaping skills of the Family had come to the fore
during the two years of voyaging from Snowglade, giving every
Family member a sturdy wardrobe fashioned from organiweave
and from the fiber of plants from the lifezone bubbles.
Killeen made a clipped half-salute, a gesture he had perfected.
It carried greeting and acknowledgment, but also reminded that
he was in his official Cap'n capacity, not functioning as simply
another member of the Family. He was about to move on
when Jocelyn said loudly, "We're figurin' on takin' that station,
yeasay?"
Killeen was stunned. "How--" he began, then stopped himself.
He must not betray surprise that word of the station had

32

	TIDES OF LIGHT
	33

gotten around so fast. Shiptalk was legendary. "--you mean?" he
finished.
He knew that the old formalisms of Family speech dictated
that he should say "do you mean"--long hours spent with his
Aspects had made the ancient, smoother speech patterns almost
second nature to him, and he customarily used them to distance
himself. But casual crewtalk might be the right approach now.
"Heard there's a big mech place up ahead," one of the men
said slowly.
"Word gets 'round," Killeen admitted, settling onto his haunches.
This was the ageold posture the Family had adopted while on the
move, always ready to jump and move in case of surprise. Here it
was meaningless, of course, but it underlined their common past
and equality. Everyone in the circle was also squatting, some
clutching small bottles of flavored water. A midshipman offered
Killeen one and he took a swig: rich aromatic apricot, the fruit
now flowering in the lifezones.
"Yeasay," Jocelyn said. "We'll be having a gathering?"
"Don't see why," Killeen answered carefully.
"Battle plans!" a burly crewman exclaimed loudly.
"And what battle's that?" Killeen countered quietly.
"Why, 'gainst that mechplex," the man said. Several grunts of
agreement came from the knot.
"You sure it's a mechplex?" Killeen asked mildly.
"What else's it?" a deckwoman demanded.
Killeen shrugged, eyeing them closely. They seemed worked
up by the prospect of an attack, faces pinched and drawn. "We'll
see."
"Can't be anythin' but human or mech," Jocelyn said, "and it's
sure as hell not human."
"We'll attack no mechplex without getting its measure first,"
Killeen said.
"Surprise it!" the burly man said hoarsely. Killeen suspected
the man had been drinking something beyond flavored water.
Indeed, in several faces here there was a glow, a certain careless
droop of lip and eye, that told him much. A clear violation of regs.
But he reckoned that this was not the best moment to challenge
them. Something more was going on and he needed to find out
what.
"Coming at it from an empty sky--that's a surprise?" He
chuckled.
"We killed the mechs aboard here!" the man countered.


	34
	Gregory Benford


"We had real surprise then. They weren't ready for an assault
at liftoff. We had that one chance, sweep the ship clean, and we
took it." Killeen shook his head. "Won't get that chance again."

This seemed to silence most of them; there had been restless
mutterings around the circle for the last few moments. Killeen
still could not see where these ideas had come from. For some
time now he had watched the Family acquire the usual bad habits
of an outdoor folk forced to live too long in cramped quarters:
drinking, stimwires, gambling, random pointless quarrels.

Beyond those infractions, which he could deal with in the
usual ways, there had gradually risen a harder problem. They
regaled one another with gaudy tales of past battles, grand adventures
bloated beyond recognition. Killeen himself could recall all
too clearly those years spent on the run across Snowglade--his
frequent chilling fear, the sickening indecision, the many scrambling
retreats from humbling defeats. Now, as the tales had it,
everyone (but usually most notably the narrator) had been valiant,
savvy, quick, and steadfast, a dreaded scourge of mechs.

But there was something more than empty bravado here. He
watched the snapping flames, smoke licking at his eyes with a
sting he almost welcomed. The sooty tang brought forth innumerable
memories of hard nights spent peering dejectedly into gutter-ing
campfires, fearing every odd sound that came ringing out of
the darkness. The corncobs gave off a sweeter taste than the bite
of woodsmoke, but the gathering pall did encase this nook in a
comforting blue fog, a momentary signature of their mutual
dependence.

He felt a restive mood building and kept his silence, letting it
grow. Finally Jocelyn edgily broke the silence with, "Near as I
'member, Fanny said that we should never leave a mechplex at
our back when we're advancin'."

Heads nodded all around the circle. Killeen sipped thick apricot
nectar to cover his surprise. So it was Jocelyn talking up these
ideas, harking back to the old Cap'n, Fanny. Though Fanny had
been dead years now, cut down back on Snowglade by the Mantis,
she still exerted a profound influence in the Family. Killeen
himself had respected and loved her beyond saying. Innumerable
times, during their long voyage, he had asked himself, What
would Fanny do now? and the answer had guided him.

But this was different. Jocelyn was using Fanny's legend to
sow trouble among the crew.
"She also said, don't take on enemies you don't need." Killeen


	TIDES OF LIGHT
	35


looked deliberately around, locking eyes with each of the crew in
turn. "And 'specially when they're bigger'n you."

Some murmuring agreement welcomed this. Jocelyn didn't
look directly at Killeen, but said, "If we can't take a station, how'11
we do with that whole damn planet?"

Killeen knew he had to be careful here. There was a tense
expectation in the air, as if Jocelyn had summed up what they all
felt. This was a Family talk, and she had kept it just beyond the
strictures of ship discipline. He could cut off Jocelyn right now,
show his anger, but that would leave unanswered questions, and
irritations among the crew. He decided to not invoke his rank.
Instead, he laughed.

Jocelyn had not expected that. His dry chuckle startled her.
Then he said with a halfsmile, "That's your killer-Aspect talkin'
again, right?" He turned to the rest. "Jocelyn now, she's loaded in
five new Aspect chips in just the last year. One's a Cap'n who
specialized in leadin' charges 'gainst the mechs--just 'bout the
only maneuver he knew, I'd guess, 'cause he sure didn't live long.
That Aspect gives great advice, he does--only it's always the

same."

Several around the circle smiled. Granted, the Family would
never have survived this voyage without the Aspects' vast hoard of
advice on the ancient human tech which had built the Argo. But
their hovering presences perpetually yearned to be tapped more
fully into their host's sensory net, to gobble hungrily of the very
air and zest that life brought. Aspects could never be truly content.
They came from many eras and their advice often conflicted.
Occasionally one dominated its host's thinking. Letting an Aspect
get out of control was humiliating.

Muscles bunched in Jocelyn's long jaw. "I speak for myself,
not for some dusty Aspect," she spat out.

"Then you should avoid fights when you can." Killeen kept his
voice wry and friendly.

She said sharply, "Like this one?"

So she had gotten the hint and still chose to make this public.
Very well. "Now that you mention it..."

"Some of us think Family honor demands--"

"Honor's the first thing that falls on a battlefield," Killeen said
dryly.

He immediately regretted having interrupted her, because
Jocelyn's eyes narrowed angrily. "We should take that mechplex
'fore it attacks us."


	36
	Gregory Benford

"Our target's a world, not a tin box in space," Killeen said
easily. He knew he would come out ahead if he let her lose her
temper.
"With that in our hands, we can control what reaches the
surface!" she said excitedly.
"And alert whatever's on the surface before we can land the Argo," he said.
"Well, Fanny would never--"
"Lieutenant Jocelyn, belay that Fanny stuff. I'm Cap'n now."
She looked startled. He had always thought that she was best
at following a planned tactic. She fumbled when time came for fast
footwork and a shift of attack. "Uh, aye-aye, but--"
"And I say we're going straight in. Got that? We'll skip the
station."
"Damnall, that station'11 give us--"
--Cap'n!--
The call came not from the circle but from Killeen's own belt.
He was startled at the tinny voice that spoke from his waist:
Shibo.
"Yeasay," he answered. Abruptly he lost interest in Jocelyn.
Shibo seldom
called on ship comm. For her to do so meant
something important.
---The board-- Shibo began, but Killeen cut the switch. He
never allowed crew to overhear officers' messages unless he wanted
to leak something deliberately.
He got up, nodded briskly at Jocelyn, and set off up the spiral
to the control vault. He disliked leaving his dispute with Jocelyn
hanging. He had blunted her momentum, but left a core of
resistance in her still. And ambition, as well.
When he came through the hatch, Shibo was standing with
uncharacteristic immobility, meditative: her arms wrapped around
herself, thumbs hooked into her shiny black exskell ribs. Normally
her hands would be moving restlessly over the boards, summoning
forth the Argo's energies and microminds.
"Cap'n, I have a problem. New kind, too." Her luminous eyes
and chagrined mouth could not conceal her alarm.
"Is it the station?"
"In a way." Her exskell shifted like a cage of black bones,
framing her gesture: something halfway between a shrug and a
vexed wave of dismissal. "The board is frozen. I can't dictate
trajectory anymore."
"Why not?"

	TIDES OF LIGHT
	37

"Some override command."
"From where?"
"Maybe 'From when?' is the right question."
"The Mantis?"
"Could be. It's taking us on a slightly different tack from
planetary rendezvous."
"You can't countermand it?"
"No."
When Shibo admitted defeat he was sure she had struggled
with the problem to her limits. He frowned. "Where are we
going?"
"Toward that station. Against our will."


Chapter EIGHT

Deep bass moans ran the length of Argo, like the songs of great
swollen beasts.
The dust outside hummed and rubbed against the lifezone
bubbles as the ship decelerated. It was as though the thin flotsam
of the Galactic Center, spiraling in toward the shrouded star
ahead, played the Argo like a great taut instrument. Melodies of
red lightning danced about the burnished bow.
Killeen watched the approach of the station. He stood with his
back to the assembling crew and peered through the forward port.
Their trajectory ahead was clear. Argo was coming down to fly
parallel to the station's great circular plain, skimmed along it by
unseen forces. Shibo could do nothing with Argo's helm.
He allowed himself a smile of self-derision. His proud show of
decisiveness had come to nothing. Jocelyn's cagey--and insubordinate
cgging on of the crew, and her public disagreement, had
angered him. She had taken advantage of the Family context to
attack his piloting decisions. Now, ironically, her whetting of
appetites for action served his purposes.
He had to rouse the crew for an assault that promised little
success. They were going in against unknown opponents, across a
mechtech terrain they had never seen the likes of before. Hard-learned
Family tactics would mean nothing here perhaps worse
than nothing, for they might well be exactly the wrong thing to
do.
The swelling disk below revealed its silvery intricacies as he
watched. At their present speed, blunted somehow by the station
as they approached, it would take over an hour to reach the
central tower. If that was their destination, he had time to carry
out the ruse he had planned. If not, there was a surprise squad set
at a spot mechs would probably not anticipate.
Killeen wore his full ceremonial tunic of blue and gold over his
gray coverall, and a full belt of tools and weapons beneath that.

38

	TIDES OF LIGHT
	39

He would waste no time changing if events interrupted the
ceremony. Battle squads were poised at every small lock of the
ship, ready to pour forth on signal. The remaining crew, gathered
here, were for effect. Killeen had no way of knowing if whatever
ran the station had already planted bugs on the hull, listeners
powerful enough to pick up conversation. But he had to allow that
this might be true, and use it against the enemy if he could.
Ahead, the scintillant, perfectly circular disk filled half the sky.
Phosphorescent waves spiraled inward on the disk, their troughs
brimming silver, their peaks moving rims of gold. The lumines-cence
hovered like a fog over the actual metalwork of the disk.
Arcs formed at the disk's rim, where they washed and fretted in
random rivulets.
Somehow this chaos resolved itself into distinct waves which
grew and glowed with each undulation, oozing inward to join a
whirlpool that twisted with majestic deliberation toward the towering
spike at the disk center. That bristly central axis harvested
the inward-racing waves in a spray of rainbow glory as they
hammered against its ribbed base.
Jutting above and below the disk, the light-encrusted central
tower tapered away, many kilometers long. Web antennae bristled
along it. One end of the tower poked into a vapor of forking
flux that burned steadily, silent and ivory against the backdrop of a
passing dustcloud. The other ended in a burnished stub.
The waves seemed to be drawing Argo down in a long, scalloping
glide across the circular plain. Bulkheads crackled and the deck
rippled in sluggish, muscular grace, like something roused from
sleep. Killeen fretted about how much of such flexing the ship
could take.
Shibo said to him quietly, so the gathering Family behind
them could not hear, "Lie doggo?"
"A little longer. Looks like whatever's bringing us in is taking
no other precautions."
"Maybe it thinks we're a mech ship?"
"Hope so." Killeen watched luminous discharges warp and
merge in the plain beyond. He had the sensation of skating over a
huge sea, and remembered the time he had spent in a place like
this--the interior digital world of the Mantis, a great gray ocean of
the mind.
"What now?" she prompted.
"We zag against their zig."
He turned when he sensed the room become still. Lieutenants


	40
	Gregory Benford

Cermo and Jocelyn had ranked and ordered the Family into lines
precise and attentive.

This was the atmosphere he wanted, had carefully programmed.
Here, he reflected, was all of humanity he would probably ever
know again. The nearest brothers were back at Snowglade, an
unfathomable distance behind. For all he knew, this small band

might well be the only shred of their race that yet lived.

"Dad? Uh, Cap'n?"

He turned, startled, to find Toby at his elbow. "You're out of
ranks, midshipman," he said severely.

"Yeah, but I gotta carry this damn thing, and it's 'cause a
you." Toby twisted his neck uncomfortably at the cowling that
wrapped around his shoulders, snug against his helmet ring.

"You'll carry your designated 'quipment into battle," Killeen
said stiffly.

"This'11 just slow me down!"

"It will give us a good view of all the action around and in front
of you. Someone has to carry the area-survey eye." Killeen used
the connective words of and to, which were absent in ordinary
Family speech, to lend distance and Cap'nly reserve.

It failed to work with Toby. "You got me saddled with this,
right?"

"Lieutenant Cermo chooses gear."

Toby sneered. "He knew just what you wanted."

"Cermo assigns jobs, picks the most able," Killeen said tightly.
"I'm proud that he deemed my son capable of such an important
job."

"Dad, I'll be a slow target with this rig on, crawlin' 'round
down there. I'll get pushed back to the second skirmish line."

"Damn right. I'll want views from the second line, not the
first."

"That's not fair! I want--"

"You'll get back in rank or else you won't set boot outside,"
Killeen said sharply.

Toby opened his mouth to protest and the Cap'n spat back,
,,Now.r'

Toby shrugged elaborately and marched stiffly back to his
position in the third left-flank squad. He stood beside Besen, the
dark-eyed young woman; Killeen often saw them together these
days. True, they served in the same squad, but that probably
concealed more than it explained.

Killeen hoped the Family had not overheard them and thought


	TIDES OF LIGHT
	41


they were just bantering casually. Somehow, given his inability to
conceal his emotions where his son was concerned, he doubted
that. As if to confirm this, Besen cocked an eyebrow at Toby.
Killeen realized that he and Toby must have been quite obvious to
everyone in the large room.

He suppressed an irritated grimace and nodded curtly to Cermo.
The inspection began. Killeen walked down the ranks, Lieutenants
Cermo, Jocelyn, and Shibo at one pace behind. He scanned
each crewmember closely. Faces well remembered, faces which
had grown healthier with rest and better food. But also faces that
had time to see that the old ways of Family fidelity and organization
did not suit well the running of a true starship. Faces that
doubtless hatched half-thought-through plans to better themselves
by bending Family and crew discipline.

With the press of deadly necessity gone, the sprouts of individual
ambition grew in fertile soil. Would they fare well in battle
after such indolence? A host of tiny impressions collected in
Killeen's mind. He would digest them later, during his solitary
walks on the hull, to form the raw and instinctive material for
furthering the efficiency of the ship--if they ever again flew the
Argo. Yet the ritual was worthy in and of itself.

The Family had added thirty-two newborn on the voyage.
Mothers tended the young at the rear of the domed assembly
room. Killeen wondered if those children would ever stride the
soil of the world far below, proud and free. Or, indeed, of any
world at all.

It was time. Before the action to come, it would be best to
remind them of who they were. He began to read the ancient
Family Rites.

His Ling Aspect had provided the text from ancient times. The
planet-bound Citadels of Snowglade had neglected the spacefaring
rites. But here they fitted perfectly.

It was a code black and stern, full of duty and tradition and
larded throughout with dire warnings of the punishment which
would befall any Family member who transgressed it.

Many of the arcane passages made no sense to Killeen at all.
He read one such without letting the slightest suggestion of a
frown of incomprehension cross his brow. "No Family shall
countertack or polyintegrate more than two separable genetic
indices in any one birthing, using artificial means. Penalty for this
is expulsion of both parents and child for the lifetime of the
engendered child."


	42
	Gregory Benford


Now what did polyintegrate mean? And how could anyone
tinker with the traits of his or her children-to-be? True, Killeen
had heard whispered tales of ancient crafts like that. They were
buried in the mists of mankind's origins in the Great Times. This
passage indirectly vouched for the ancient origin of the Families,
which was, he supposed, reassuring. The human vector had been
set long ago, and its opposition to the mechs was a truth which
emerged from time immemorial.

Something about the droning passages, saddled with legalisms
and prickly with techterms, caught and held their attention. The
Family stood stiffly with solemn, set faces. As Killeen launched
into the long, rolling sentences detailing the depredations of the
mechs, and the valiant efforts every Family member was expected
to take to oppose them, they stirred. A boy in the front row,
Loren, had eyes that seemed to fill his face. Tears welled in those
eyes and trickled down, unnoticed by the boy. He had a faraway
look, perhaps dreaming of classic battles and brave victories that
were to be his.

In a sudden bitter gust Killeen wondered if these old, lofty
sentiments would armor Loren against mech shots. He had seen
more than one boy blown to red jelly--or worse, his mind sucked
of self, the once-vivid eyes blank and empty.

This sudden lurch of emotion did not make him miss a syllable
of the reciting. He went on to the finish, projecting the stern
moral tones that were right and effective, even though within him
doubts fought and sputtered.

Now for the added touch:

"In furtherance of these high aims I have a new name to
bestow. Tradition grants Cap'ns the right to name a fresh-found
star system. I have already seized this right. The blazing opportunity
before us is Abraham's Star."

They cheered. Abraham's legend endured still.

"To the crew of a ship falls the time-honored right to name a
discovered world. Your council has picked one hallowed and
vibrant--New Bishop."

He finished and, following tradition, the Family shouted "Yeasay!
Yeasay! Yeasay!" and broke into a raucous symphony of howls and
calls. A few, thinking of the battle ahead, indulged in rude obscenities.
Some were ingeniously impossible, describing acts of unlikely
sexual passion between mechs of astounding geometries.

Killeen stepped back, his mind coolly distant from the effect
he had sought. Humans could not press the attack without height-


	TIDES OF LIGHT
	43


ened adrenaline and hormone-driven zest. Mechs could simply
switch on, but humans who would risk their lives needed a powerful
cocktail lacing their veins.

Killeen realized now that in these last years he had come to
think of the Cap'ncy as a welter of endless detail. To be a good
shipman meant mastering the countless minute but important
elements of lifezone regulation, of pressures and flows, of servos
and engines. Only the memories of the Aspects had gotten him
and his crew through the blizzard of petty mysteries that allowed
life to survive this harshest of all realms.

But now he felt returning his older, original sense of what a
Cap'n needed. Bold initiative, laced with sober calculation. Ingenuity
and quickness. Moral and physical courage, both. Tactful
handling of Family who were in ship's terms underlings, but in
the full compass of life were the dearest people he would ever

know.

Those were the crucial qualities, He only hoped he had some
of them. So much depended on him, and he had only his memories
of Fanny and of Abraham--whose wind-worn face swam before
him now, split by a fatherly grin--to guide him.

His personal sensory net resounded with pinpricks. Timing
was essential now, and he wanted the mech acoustic bugs--if
any--to register human zest and celebration, and so be unprepared
for what came next.

"Cap'n!" Cermo called.

As the Family dissolved into chattering knots, Killeen turned
to Cermo and from the corner of his eye caught a hint of movement
upon the immense perspectives outside.

They were moving swift and sure toward the central axis.
Fresh energies surged on the intricate disk floor below them. It
was as though the activity he glimpsed took place beneath a
tossing ocean, and he could catch only a flickering of a vastly
larger plan beneath the waves. Oblong forms shot swiftly among
bulky pods. Machines whirled on rails, angularities moved like
schools of darting fish--yet it all had the appearance of orderly

labor, carried out beneath the surging bands of luminescence.
Bass notes rolled through the deck. Metal rang.
Something felt for purchase on the Argo's outer skin.

Killeen switched to his shielded comm frequency and whispered
the code: "Hoyea! Hoyea!"

He patched a line in from Shibo's control survey. It bloomed
in his left eye, a view uphull from the lifezone bubbles. Against


	44
	Gregory Benford


the Argo's burned and nicked hull, those moist, filmy swellings
seemed like abnormal growths run wild. From small slits in the
opalescent bubbles came quick, darting figures. They shot downward,
through the roiling waves of electroluminescence, and into
the protecting grooves of the disk.

Killeen blinked twice and got a view looking forward. Long,
tubular mechs had appeared from somewhere and were moving
rapidly toward the airlocks of the Argo. He nodded to himself,
seeing only the flexing forms that flew to meet them.

Good timing. They would be at the locks in a few moments,
undoubtedly sent by the mechmind to take advantage of the
momentary human rituals.

So the mechs in this station knew something of humans--enough,
at least, to recognize them as enemies. That could be
useful. Killeen had learned certain patterns of thought from the
Mantis, oblique ways of viewing humanity. Mech ways were now
more intelligible, though no less hateful.

These station mechs were probably following the orders of the
Mantis, sent before the Argo lifted from Snowglade. Whatever the
intention of the Mantis in sending Argo here, the Family was
united on one point--they would destroy whatever agency tried
to control them. They had smashed the small mechs aboard
Argo immediately after liftoff. At the slightest sign of interference
they would attack the station. Some thought the Mantis's plans
may have been benign, but they were a minority.

Killeen stood amid the fading revelry of the Family, seeing
and hearing nothing except the silent drama beyond the hull.

"Arm!" he whispered over comm. Ringing clicks answered
him.

Slender, coiling forms now neared the main and side locks of
the Argo. Killeen waited until the first made contact. It wriggled,
forming a hoop around the lock door. Killeen saw small borers
fork out, bite into Argo's hull. The others had reached their locks,
were settled

"Fire!" Beside each lock the planted mines exploded. Each
made a billowing blue-shot cloud that ripped through the mech
bodies, shredding them.

Killeen allowed himself a smile. This first blow had gone well,
but now there would be lives at risk with every turn of events. He
became aware that the assembly room had grown silent, pensive,
watching him. He blinked, dispelling the outside visions. Cermo


	TIDES OF LIGHT
	45


stood at his elbow. He breathed in luxuriantly, pierced by the
strange pulsing pleasure of being again, after so long, in the thick
of action.

"Posts!" he shouted. "Form the star!"


Chapter NINE

Airless, silent, the metallic landscape rose against the distant
mottled black like a gleaming promise of perfect order. Watching
the view, Killeen thought it amusing that his job was to smash
such smug geometric certainty, to bring living chaos.
He stood in the control vault, Shibo at his side. This was the
first time he had commanded an intricate movement of the Family
without actually being there, participating. Family Bishop had a
long tradition of Cap'ns who fought and risked and died with their
fellow Family. Now, operating from a true ship for the first time
in long ages, that was impossible. Only from here could he monitor
all the small teams who swarmed over the tower, seeking the
mainmind.
The shifting scene on the main screen was a direct feed from
the all-scanner on Toby's back. Killeen's eyes narrowed at each
flicker of fresh movement on the disk plain, letting his own
reflexes respond to the images. His hands tightened, unclasped,
tightened again.
Shibo looked at Killeen shrewdly. "You told Cermo, pick
Toby?"
"Naysay."
"Truly?" She seemed surprised.
"I 'spect Cermo chose Toby 'cause he's quick. Sure, some
crew'11 see this as pure favor. But if I overruled him, showed any
interference for Toby . . ."
"I see."
"It's a tradeoff. This scanner slows you down, makes you easier
to hit. But--"
"It gives you a chance to warn him if he's missing something."
His mouth twisted with irritation. "Naysay! I was going to say,
it puts him in the second skirmish line."
"Which is safer."
"Course."

46

	TIDES OF LIGHT
	47

He turned to see Shibo's silent wry smile. He was about to
bark a challenge at her when he paused, made himself step out of
his Cap'n persona, and found himself making his "um-hmm" of
grudging amusement. She understood him perfectly, and when
they were alone was unwilling to let him get away with the Cap'n
role completely. He was about to kiss her--which was easier for
him than speaking--when the screen above shifted.
Toby was striding quickly across the disk plain, having trouble
finding boot-grip. He was down in one of the myriad open-topped
"streets" that crisscrossed the disk, for unfathomable purposes.
The tower loomed directly overhead, larger than the eye could
take in.
What had caught Killeen's attention was Toby's long leap out
of the "street," which had protected him so far. He rose to the
tower side, applied his magnetic coupler, and was drawn with a
harsh clank to the studded tower wall.
Two other suited figures joined him. They raced along the
wall, letting their boots seize and thrust. A thick-lipped opening
appeared over the horizon of the tower's curve. The three dropped
down it. Killeen saw that one was Besen, her white teeth the only
feature visible inside her helmet amid the yellow sunlit glare.
A sizzling report echoed. Something spat microwave bursts at
them from a side passage. Low-level mechs always imagined they
could kill with mech weapons, never realizing that organic forms
could shut out the electromagnetic spectrum and still function
quite independently.
Killeen was glad he had sent them in with their inboard
receivers completely dead, except for the link through Toby's
all-scanner. Toby and Besen surged after the bulky mechs and
blew neat holes in each.
The squad twisted deeply into the tower. They worked without
crosstalk, giving the mechs no electromag-tag. A hard yellow
glow beckoned down a narrow tunnel and Toby did not hesitate to
plunge after it.
Killeen drew back, the lines of his face deepening, but he said
nothing. Momentarily he turned to tracking the other squads,
giving maneuvering orders.
The attack was going exceedingly well. The squads flanked and
parried and thrust with agile verve. The mechs were inept and
uncoordinated, once their initial plan failed. They probably planned
to humble Argo with a show of force. These were guard forces,
not fighters.


48


Gregory Benford


Well ordered, however. I suggest you be careful as the line
progresses into the interior. A slow defense can nevertheless
draw the swift, unthinking attacker into a trap.


This interjection from his Ling Aspect reminded Killeen to
order the side squads to attack the comm lines they met. They responded
quickly and severed several obvious lines. Killeen worried
about the nonobvious ones. His Ling Aspect seized this
opportunity to hold forth.


You display a tendency toward far too clipped and brief orders,
I have noticed. The great ancient generals kept their heads,
remember, and did not allow the disorder of battle to affect
clarity. For example, a land general of far-ancient days, named
Iron Wellington, was directing a grand battle called Waterloo
when he saw a fire threaten to break his troops' line. He sent a
note which read, "1 see that fire has communicated from the
haystack to the roof of the chateau. After they will have fallen
in, occupy the ruined walls inside of the garden, particularly if
it should be possible for the enemy to pass through the embers
to the inside of the house." Graceful, accurat and all written
while on horseback under enemy fire, in the midst of a raging
military crisis. That should be your aim.


Killeen grimaced, and his Arthur Aspect piped in:


I cannot but note that the message contains both a future
subjunctive and a future perfect construction--remarkably
difficult forms even in relaxed circumstances.


Arthur was a scientist and lightning calculator from the Late
Arcology Era. He was precise, prissy, and invaluable. Killeen
pushed away both Aspects. He watched as Toby's squad came
coasting into a vast bowl lined with scintillant panels. Killeen
recognized this from Aspect-pictures he had seen years before. An
old-style trap using crossfiring lasers.

"Get out!" he sent on a tightbeam channel.

Toby heard him, veered left. Acceleration slammed perspectives
into a squashed blur.

The screen gave quick glimpses of convoluted conduits, incised
slabs of pale orange, tangles of wiring. Bolts snarled around
them, ricocheting off curved metallic surfaces. Burnt-gold electrical
overloads arced ahead of them along the side shafts.

"Mines," Killeen sent. "Seal up."


TIDES OF LIGHT
	49


Though the fast-moving picture kept plunging down a wide
tunnel, Killeen could hear the faint snick of Toby's suit closing all
possible current-carrying leaks. Voltages lurked all around them,
lying in wait for humans who could scarcely take a simultaneous
unshielded Volt and Amp, so delicate were their interiors.

Killeen checked with several squads who had entered the
tower. They were meeting the same clumsy defenses. The twisting
warrens of dense circuitry made it hard to figure the location
of the mainmind. No Family had ever entered such a place.
Experience could not guide them.

Stranger still, there was obvious damage to some passages. A
fight had raged here before. The cuts looked fresh, too. His Ling
Aspect said:


Perhaps this explains the rudimentary resistance we are meeting.


"How?"


If someone else has taken this station, they might have left it
with token forces.


"Some rival mechs?" Killeen knew mech cities sometimes
fought one another, competition run amok. Maybe the Mantis's
reception committee had been knocked off?.


Perhaps. We may discover more at the mainmind.


Killeen watched the teams move on a 3D projection of the
tower. Shibo entered fresh information as the teams reported in.
Quickly, blocks of detail filled in the large blank spaces in the
tower projection.

Killeen thought he saw a pattern in the snaking tunnels. The
station's many corridors and shafts did not center on the disk
plain. Instead, they necked toward a point high above that, in the
northern end of the tower.

He sent orders to the teams to vector that way. Then he
turned his attention back to Toby's scanner feed. It provided the
most complete views, which the Argo's systems immediately integrated
into the station 3D map.

Toby was plunging down a hexagonal shaft. Besen flew ahead
of him. They both moved adroitly in the zero gravity, maneuvering
with experience born of daily drill on the Argo.


	50
	Gregory Benford

Ahead was another squad, which had reached the nexus first.

They were attaching inputs to a huge blank cube.
--Mainmind,-- came a comm signal.
"Looks like."

--Wiring so can blow it, Cap'n.--

"Yeasay."

Toby landed on the bulwark cube, boots thumping. Killeen
watched leads attached, holes bored with quick darting laser
punches.

Mechs appeared nearby, obvious and awkward. They died in
bursts of ruby phosphorescence. Killeen frowned. The mechs
seemed unusually slow and stupid. Had they simply gotten unused
to human combatants?

A motion caught his eye. Indices showed a higher radiation
count .... even a slow defense can draw a swift, unthinking
attacker into a trap . . ·

"Exit now!" he sent to Toby. Relayed, the order provoked a
hurried finish to the mining.

"Leave the extra charges!" Killeen shouted.
--But they're primed,-- Toby sent. --I gotta--"Even
better. Go!"

Something appeared at the far end of the shaft. It was big and
moved quickly but Killeen's warning had gotten the squads clear.

The approaching shape did not have a good angle to shoot.
The two squads raced away into an exit tunnel.
"Blow those extra charges," Killeen ordered.

--But they're just floating,-- Toby answered. --Won't hurt

the mainmind.--

"Do it!"

The answering percussive punch came rattling through the
electromagnetic spectrum. A strange, descending wail cut across
the noise. Killeen frowned. The dwindling shriek was like the cry
of a dying animal. Mechs never gave such a sound.

The big thing must have been caught as it passed the mainmind.
Killeen guessed that it was the controlling influence here. Only
luck had let the squads escape. But there were still plenty of
dangers.

Toby's relayed images showed them racing into a tunnel that
led straight away from the mainmind.

"No," Killeen sent. "Take one that has turns. They'll have
ambushes on the fast routes. And the turns will block the blast."

In eerie stretched silence he watched the seconds tick on. The


	TIDES OF LIGHT
	51


screen darted and swerved and lurched as Toby made maximum
speed in the zero gravity. The boy could windmill his arms and
get his feet into position for a land-and-repel with perfect timing.
The screen whirled as Toby tumbled in the closed, narrow spaces.
This swept twirling spotlights over the mad rush of mechtech that
came streaming up from darkness and vanished just as quickly.

At last they came to a long tunnel that showed starlight in a
distant circle. Toby ram-accelerated toward it. The screen suddenly
jerked.

"The mainmind's dead," Killeen said. "That was an electromag-tag
burst from it as it blew."

--Great!-- Besen burst in.

Killeen tensed. Toby tumbled soundlessly in the yawning blackness.
Ghostly arms reached out nearby, blue and flickering, searching
for something to scorch. Further, Killeen knew, there were
other presences called Inductances and Resistors and Capacities
which played mysterious but perhaps fatal roles in these electro-dynamic
corridors. He had learned to use them, but their deep
essences eluded the practical programs he had studied.

Toby veered. Three squads followed him in a quick dash for
the opening.

Then the screen showed only swirling stars and the harsh
yellow-white of the disk plain.

Toby spun and looked behind. From the tower opening came a
crumpled form in a shiny suit, drifting with the still-dancing
radiance that had almost reached the main party.

Killeen watched as the view approached the coasting body. He
recognized the backpatch of Waugh, a woman originally of the
Family Knight, now a Bishop. The form did not move.

It spun in stately revolution, as solemn and uncaring as a
planet in its gyre. Toby approached carefully. Within the helmet
was shadow.

Then Killeen noticed a small dark patch on Waugh's boot, a
flaw perhaps struck by a near miss during the attack. It was a
small hole, hardly deep enough to break the suit's vacuum seal.
But it had allowed a voltage in and was rimmed by a burnished
halo. Killeen saw that Waugh's helmet was slightly swollen and
distended. He understood then why they could not see into it.
Carbon black masked the faceplate. He was grateful for this small
fact, because then he could not see inside, where Waugh's head
had exploded.


Chapter TEN

The memory came back to him as he ate the celebratory dinner.
Waugh, a good crewwoman he had not known well. She had paid
the price for his decisions, and he would never know if somehow
the cost could have been less.

Fortunately, her genetic material and eggs were preserved
by Argo's surgery. We must take measures to ensure that
all Family can contribute to future generations' genetic
diversity. I advise--

"Shut up!" Killeen muttered. His Arthur Aspect had no sense of
time and place and decency and Killeen was not in a mood for his
coolly analytical views. He glanced up from his serving of baked
savory eggplant and saw that no one had noticed his exclamation,
or else were too polite to show it. Ignoring outer manifestations of
Aspect conversations was now considered good manners. Argo's soft life was at least making the Family more refined.
He could not help reliving the battle, a habit he had picked up
through the years on the run on Snowglade. The Family always
held a Witnessing if a member was wounded or killed in an attack,
and this time there had been Waugh and Leveerbrok, both brought
down by electric weapons. So the Witnessing summoned up the
mourning, and then the Family broke into smaller families and
guests for a meal which put the dead behind them and made
muted merriment over the victory. Killeen had seen many such,
most celebrating nothing more than escaping another mech ambush
or pursuit. It was pleasant to greet this meal as a Cap'n fresh
from his first engagement, an intense action swiftly won.
"I sure hope next time you saddle somebody else with the
scanner," Toby said, passing an aromatic zucchini casserole.
Killeen allowed himself a slight smile. "Cermo makes minor
staffing decisions," he said curtly.
"Oh, come on, Dad," Toby said. "You're frappin' over."

52

	TIDES OF LIGHT
	53

"I'm what?"
"Frapping over," Besen explained, pronouncing the words
carefully. "It means dodging."
"New lingo for young Turks?" Shibo asked.
Toby and Besen looked blank, but the second young guest,
Midshipman Loren, said brightly, "Well, guess we sorta have our
own way, y'know, talkin' things out."
"Turks?" Toby persisted.
"Old expression," Shibo said. "The Turks were an old Family
who lived vibrantly."
This was news to Killeen, who had never heard the term
either, but he did not show this. He was fairly sure that if the
Turks had been a Family, it must have been long before humankind
came to Snowglade. Perhaps they had inhabited the Chandeliers,
or even had come from ancient Earth. Shibo had made
good use of the years of voyaging, communing often with her
Aspects, learning much. Along with tech help, Aspects and even
the lesser Faces prattled about their own lost times and traditions.
"Yeasay," Killeen said, "the Turks fought hard, ran swift." He
saw Shibo give him a skeptical glance but kept on. "They never
had a better day than the one you brought off, though."
"Yeasay, we blasted 'em," Loren said, eyes bright.
"Took those mechs clean," Toby agreed.
Besen nodded. "New kind mechs, too."
"You noticed," Shibo said approvingly, passing a platter of
mustard-laced ship's biscuits.
Toby looked insulted. "Why, course we did. Think we can't
remember, can't tell a navvy from a Snout?"
Besen said mildly, "Those were Snowglade mechs. Why should
here have same mechs?"
Toby answered, "Mechs're ever'where, that's why."
Loren was taller than Toby but thinner, and this gave the
steep planes of his face a look of studious care. "Who says?"
Toby snorted. "Family lore. Mechs're all over Galactic Center."
"Maybe they're adapted for each star," Loren said reasonably.
Toby had no answer to this, but Besen pursed her lips and
observed, "Mechs could adapt faster on a planet, sure. It's life that
has a hard time."
"Life?" Toby asked indignantly. "We can zig and zag faster'n any mech ever did."
"No," Besen said patiently, "I mean real adapting. Changing
the body, stuff like that."


	54
	Gregory Benford


Killeen gave Shibo a veiled look of approval. For midshipmen
they knew a lot more than he had at that age. "How were these
mechs here?"

Toby snorted. "Slow as sundown."

Loren said more judiciously, "They seemed disorganized.
Couldn't form up right."

"Dont think they were fighters," Besen said.

"They sure fought enough," Toby said. "I 'member you dodgin'
plenty bolts."

Killeen leaned forward quizzically. "Besen, why you think
they weren't fighters?"

She paused, aware that the Cap'n had been letting them pour
forth their own ideas, and now suddenly feeling self-conscious.
"Well ... they had grapplers, screwjacks, poly-arms. Work
'quipment."

"They tried fryin' us," Toby pointed out.

Besen held her ground. "Those microwave disks were prob'ly
comm gear, not weapons."

"How 'bout that thing almost caught us at the mainmind?"
Toby pursued.

Besen paused refiectively. "I'm not sure."

Killeen watched her carefully. Whatever had been lurking
near the mainmind had disintegrated when the cluster charges
went off. The Family had found only meaningless fragments.
There had been chunks of fleshy stuff, but mechs on Snowglade
had often used compounds which mimicked the self-repairing
chemistry of life.

Besen went on, "Don't think we'll savvy out the answer till we
meet the mechs who made the station."

"C'mon, you're just inventin' boogeymen." Toby chuckled.

"I know navvy-class mechs when I see 'em," Besen said.
"That's all we saw in the station. The higher-class mech was at the
mainmind."

"You dunno that," Toby said. "We never got a good look."
"Stands to reason." Besen gave Toby an affectionate, bemused
look. "Station was already damaged. Prob'ly some mech faction
took it from another. We caught 'era before they could build up
defenses again, I figure."

Killeen watched Toby wrestle with the idea. The boy was
bright but he let his enthusiasm cloud his thinking----or replace it.

Toby began, "Even if it was a manager mech or somethin', we
were faster."


	TIDES OF LIGHT
	55


"We got lucky, is all," Besen said.

"Luck?" Toby looked insulted. "We were quick!"

"If Cap'n hadn't made us drop everything and run, we'd be
mechmeat."

Killeen was glad to see Besen not meekly following whatever
Toby said. There was in the Family a regrettable tendency of
adolescent females to accept their boyfriends' views of the world.
The generations of sedentary life in the Citadels had somehow
instilled that. The Long Retreat after the Citadel Bishop fell had
seemed to erase this, but a scant few years aboard Argo now
threatened to bring such customs back. He wanted his midship-women
to give no ground to the usual swaggering male self-assurance,
to develop their burgeoning ability to lead. In a battlefield
crisis, such timidity could prove fatal.

Killeen shared the Family's traditional view that females usually
made the best Cap'ns. Conventional wisdom held that once
women were through their adolescent-romantic phase, and had
reared children, their abilities could again come to the fore, especially
diplomacy and compromise. They could ripen as mates and executive
officers into Cap'ns. But the Family had no time now for such
extended, subtle, and probably wasteful methods. He had to
encourage independent thinking in everyone, and to hell with the
ageold mating dance.

"I think the same," Killeen said.

Besen brightened. Toby looked surprised, though he quickly
covered it by slurping at his cold potato soup. "But Waugh and
Leveerbrok might disagree."

Besen's face darkened. Killeen instantly regretted being so
blunt. He couldn't get the hang of handling young crew. "But you're
right. I think they made mistakes."

Loren nodded soberly. "Didn't stop, didn't fix up their suits
when they took hits."

"True," Shibo said emphatically. Killeen caught her veiled
glance, which told him that she was coming to his rescue even
though she saw what a clumsy lunk he was. "Got laser punctures
into circuitry. Didn't slap-patch. Voltage found 'cm."

Killeen was still unclear about the difference between Volts,
the powerful spirits that inhabited mechs, and Amps, the mysterious
sense of quick flow that somehow aided the Volts to seek and
move within the world of the machines. Volts embodied intent,
and Amps were the runners who carried out those intentions,
against the Ohms. He expected he never would fathom such lore.


	56
	Gregory Benford

He had heard the scientific explanation but couldn't keep it
straight.

Instead, like all the Family, he treated the scientific underpin-ning
of his world as a set of colorful spirits and personalities,
elementary animations and wills which orchestrated events he
could not see. Learning to use them meant boring study of the
proper rituals---connecting leads, punching in numbers and commands,
arranging wires and knobs and minute chips which induced
proper behavior in the entities who inhabited the interior
of the Argo's myriad complexity.

He sensed living motivations inside dead matter, but imagined
that this came from humanity, animating the ancient human tech
with fresh force. Mechtech, though, was inherently dead and
beyond human understanding. It came from more recent and
higher evolution of the galaxy, he knew, but he despised it for
what it did to humanity--and for its indifference to the pain and
anguish and inexpressible poignancy of what every human felt
instinctively and mechs in their remorseless certainties so clearly
could not.

"Yeasay," Killeen added. "The Volts hid in the shafts. Like
mines; the mechs didn't have projectors themselves. Carelessness
killed Waugh and Leveerbrok."

This pronouncement brought silence and stony, downcast glances
to the table. Killeen bit his lip, wishing he could have made the
point more smoothly. Better to get it over soon, though, before
the experience faded. "So it went," he said cheerfully. "But you
three you were fast and sure and damnfine."

He raised a glass of alky-laced cider and they all followed suit.
There was a traditional toast at every post-Witnessing dinner, and
this seemed a good way to break the mood. They murmured
assent and Killeen said, "Clean the table, too." They all cast
puzzled glances at him.

"Didn't Family Knight have such a custom?" he asked Shibo.
"Eating all food?"

"After a Witnessing, yeasay. It shows confidence in the future,
gathering energy for coming battles and victories."

Shibo shook her head. "Family Bishop big eaters anyway."
"Porkers," Toby put in timidly, "compared with Knights."
"Guess it got started in the bad years at Citadel Bishop,"
Killeen said. "I was small, barely 'member 'cm. Ending the meal
was the best---crunchy, salty."

Shibo arched an eyebrow at him. "What was?"


	TIDES OF LIGHT
	57


"The food? Crawlers. Insects."

They all looked shocked. Shibo said disbelievingly, "You ate?"
"Oh, yeasay. Times were when that was all we had."
"Ate crawlers?" Toby asked open-mouthed.

"Was fair--ate only ones that crawled onto our crops, tryin' eat
our own food. Turnabout's fair, yeasay?"

To their continuing shocked looks he added, "Had 'em salted,
crisped up over the Family fire. In big baskets, mixed in with
whatever crop they were tryin' eat themselves."

Loren swallowed with difficulty and the others looked down at
their plates. "Eat up, now," Killeen said, and could barely suppress
his impulse to laugh.

Shibo's lips played with a smile and then took a solemn, thin
line as she caught on. This bit of foolishness had gotten their
minds off Waugh and Leveerbrok. Further, Killeen judged, the
midshipcrew would all soon hear of how the Cap'n had eaten
crawlers and been glad of it. It did no harm to have stories of the
hard oldtimes circulating, and it helped build the tenuous communality
that they would surely need.

Killeen finished the scraps of fleshy black eggplant and stringy
beans on his plate. He said nothing as the others started up
smalltalk again, for without his anticipating it, a dark mood had
stolen over him.

He had enjoyed this meal in the company of his son and
friends, but throughout it he had been unable to remain simply
the father. He could not shuck off the role of Cap'n merely by
shedding his tunic and emblem. Loren and Besen were Toby's
friends but they were midshipcrew, too, and a good Cap'n had to
seize every chance of training them. Comfortable though they had
all gotten during the long voyage, there was no room for easeful
life now.

The experience of watching his son dodge and dart through
murky alien passages had filled Killeen with horror. He had
suppressed it then, but now it all came out in a black and foul
mood that fed on him even as the others resumed their bantering.
They were speculating on what lengths Families might've gone to
for gruesome victuals in the past--or themselves, in the future and
he knew they were trying to draw him out. But he could not get
the images of the assault from his inner eye.

To these three midshipcrew, happily joshing one another, the
action had been an exciting triumph. To Killeen it had conjured
up memories of dozens of battles and all the anguish they brought.


	58
	Gregory Benford

The young had not yet learned that death was not a dramatic
outcome of a heroic charge. Instead, it came with a sudden
sound and a Family member nearby falling, already crisped or
fried or spat by a projectile weapon. They were gone before they
knew they'd been hit. And who got hit depended on a thousand
factors you could never judge in advance: positions, terrain, speed,
color of body armor, vagaries of mech movements and aim, endless
details that shifted every moment. So death was random and
meaningless--that was what you learned on the field. And all the
Witnessing and ceremonial dinners could not erase that penetrating
fact.
How had his father handled this knowledge? Abraham had
never seemed bothered by the losses suffered on the raids he led
out of the Citadel. Even the worst moments had not seemed to
damp that wry spirit. Yet they must have. That was the difference
between him and Abraham, Killeen thought. He had to struggle
to keep up the facade of Cap'n. To Abraham there had not been
any falsity, Abraham had been the real thing.
He saw he had been silent too long, and opened his mouth to
rejoin the conversation. Before he could speak, Cermo's signifier
beeped from his finger-coder. All at the table heard it and fell
silent, knowing that Cermo, who was on watch, would not call
unless it was important.
Killeen tapped his wrist. "Report?"
--Cap'n, there's something happenin' on the planet.-- They
all could hear the tension in Cermo's voice.
"Another shuttle coming up?" Already a shuttlecraft from the
surface of the planet had arrived. The Family had easily overpowered
the two mech pilots. The ship had been filled with machined
parts.
--Nossir, it's--it's--you come see.--
"I'm on my way," K'.'lleen said, getting up. Having to end a
meal this way irritated him and he added, "You should sharpen
your descriptive powers." The phrase had the right edge of old-style
Cap'nly speech, and he felt a certain pleasure in that.
--Sorry, Cap'm-- Cermo's small voiee was chagrined. --What
it is . . . well, there's some ring around the planet. And it's gettin'
brighter.--
Killeen felt a cold apprehension. "It's in orbit?"
--Nossir. Looks like it's . . . it's cuttin' through.--"Through
what?"
--Through the whole damn planet, sir.--

Chapter ELEVEN

At first Killeen did not believe that the image on the large screen
could be real.
	"You check for malls?" he asked Cermo.
	"Aye-aye, sir. I tried 	"The
big man's forehead wrinkled.
	Cermo
labored hard, but to him the complexity of the command
	boards
was a treacherous maze. Shibo gently took over from him,
	her
hands moving with rippling speed over the touch-actuated
	command
pads.
			After
a long moment she said, "Everything checks. That thing's
	real."

			Killeen
did not want to believe in the glowing circle that
	passed
in a great arc through free space and then buried a third of
	its
circumference in the planet. Without understanding it he knew
	immediately
that this was techwork on a scale he could never have
	imagined.
If mechs did this here, they had blundered into a place
	of
danger beyond his darkest fears.
		"Magnify,"
he ordered curtly. He knew he had to treat this
	without
showing alarm.
		The
hoop was three times larger than New Bishop. Its brilliant
	golden
glow dimmed even the crisp glare of Abraham's Star. As
	the
image swelled, Killeen expected to see detail emerge. But as
	the
rim of New Bishop grew and flattened on the screen, the
	golden
ring was no thicker than before, a hard scintillant line
	scratched
across space.
		Except
where it struck the planer's surface. There a swirl
	of
fitful radiance simmered. Killeen saw immediately that the
	sharp
edges of the ring were cutting into the planet. New Bishop's
	thin
blanket of air rolled and rushed about the ring's sharp
	edge.

	"Max
mag," he said tensely. "Hold on the foot, where it's
	touching."

	No,
not touching, he saw. Cutting.

59


6O

Gregory Benford


The bluehot flashes that erupted at the footpoint spoke of vast
catastrophe. Clouds of pitted brown boiled up. Tornadoes churned
near each foot--thick rotating disks, rimmed by bruised clouds. At
the vortex, violence sputtered in angry red jets.

Yet even at this magnification the golden hoop was still a
precise, scintillating line. On this scale it seemed absolutely straight,
the only rigid geometry in a maelstrom of dark storms and rushing
energies.

Toby and Besen and Loren had followed them to the command
vault and now stood against the wall. He felt their presence at his
back.

"It's moving," Besen whispered, awed.

Killeen could barely make out the festering footpoint as it
carved its way through a towering mountain range. Its knife-edge
brilliance met a cliff of stone and seemed to simply slip through it.
Puffs of gray smoke broke all along the cut. Winds sheared the
smoke into strands. Then the hoop was slicing through the peak of
a high snow-topped mountain, not slowing at all.

He peered carefully through the storm. Actual devastation was
slight; the constant cloudy agitation and winds gave the impression
of fevered movement, but the cause of it all proceeded

forward with serene indifference to obstacles.

"Back off," he said.

Shibo made the screen pull away from the impossibly sharp
line. The hoop pressed steadily in toward the center of New
Bishop. No longer a perfect circle, it steadily flattened on the side
that pushed inward.

"Lined up with pole," Shibo said. "Watch--I'll project it."
A graphic display appeared alongside the real image.


	TIDES OF LIGHT
	61


Cleaned of clouds, the planet's image shone brightly. The

hoop's fiat side was parallel to the axis of New Bishop's rotation.
"Not natural," Cermo said.

Killeen smothered the impulse to cackle with manic laughter.
Not natural[ Why, whatever makes you say that, Lieutenant Cermo?

Yet in a way his instincts warred with his intelligence. The
hoop shared a planet's smooth curves, its size, its immense uncaring
grace. Killeen struggled to conceive of it as something made
by design. This was tech beyond imagining. Mechs, he knew,
could carve and shape whole mountain ranges into their strange,
crackling cities--but this . . .

"It's moving toward the poles," Shibo said, her voice a smooth
lake that showed no ripples.

The hoop glowed brighter and flattened more and more as its
inner edge approached the center of New Bishop. Killeen felt
suspended, all his hopes and designs dashed to oblivion by this

immense simple thing that sailed so blithely through a planet.
"Where . . . where'd it come from?"

Cermo bit his lip in frustration. "From nowhere, Cap'n, I

swear. When I saw it first it was dim, just barely there."
"Where?"

"It was startin' in on cuttin' the air. Musta come from further
out and just ran smack into New Bishop."

Killeen did not believe this for a moment. He scowled.
Shibo said, "It lit up on impact?"

Cermo nodded. "I'd seen it before if it was bright."

"So it's drawing its light from what it's doing to the planet,"
she deduced, her eyes distant. "That's why we didn't see it
before."

Killeen wondered momentarily how she could remain so abstract
while confronting events so huge. His own imagination was
numbed. He struggled to retain some grip on events by digressing
into detail. "How... how thick is it?"

Shibo's glance told him that she had noticed the same strange
sharpness. "Smaller than the Argo, I'd judge," she said, her eyes
narrowing.

"That small," Cermo said distantly, "but it's cutting through all
that."

Shibo said, "Planet does not split."

Cermo nodded. "It's holdin' together. Some places you can see
where the thing's cut through rock and left a scar. But the rock
closes up behind it."


	62
	Gregory Benford


"Pressure seals scar again," Shibo agreed.

"It's no kind knife I ever saw," Killeen said, and instantly
regretted making such an empty statement. In the face of a thing
like this, the crew had to believe their Cap'n wasn't as dazed as
they were. Doubtless, many had already seen the golden hoop
from other parts of the ship. It might throw them into blind panic.
Killeen's own impulse had been to get away from the thing as fast
as possible. That might, indeed, be the smart thing to do. But
they had come so far ....

Toby asked, "D'you think... maybe it's not like a knife at all.
Could be some thing lives off planets? Eats 'era?"

The idea was both absurd and also not dismissable, Killeen
thought. Reasonableness was no guide here.

"If it eats all that rock, howcome it's so thin?" he said with
elaborate casualness. Besen laughed merrily and somehow the
meaningless joke relaxed the small party.

"Why would mechs make it, then?" Toby persisted.

Killeen noted ruefully that no one considered for a moment
the possibility that humans might have 'factured such a thing. The
glittering, jewellike Chandeliers had been the peak of human
endeavor, ages ago. The numbing simplicity of this glowing ring
immediately spoke of an alien mind at work here, acting through
majestic perspectives.

The mute indifference of this glowing thing was the final
judgment against them all, Killeen thought. Their endless ruminations
and longings had invested their destination with such weight,
and now this silent slicing of their freshly named world ended all
speculation. Fragile humanity could not live on such a vast canvas,
the plaything of forces beyond fathoming. Their quest had ended
in disaster even before they could set foot on the soil of their new
paradise.

"Hey, maybe Argo can do somethin' 'bout that thing," Toby
said eagerly.

Loren joined in. "Yeasay, ask the systems if they can cook up
somethin' for that."

Killeen had to smile, though he did not take his eyes from the
screen. A sixteen-year-old boy knew no constraints, could imagine
no problem that he could not meet with the right measure of savvy

and sheer boundless bursting energy. And who was he to say no?
"Try," he said to Shibo, gesturing with one hand.

She worked over the control pads for long moments, lines
creasing her face in concentration. Finally she slapped the console


TIDES OF LIGHT


63


and shook her head. "No memory. Argo doesn't recognize this
thing."

Killeen summoned up all his Aspects. They were happy for
even momentary attention but only one had any useful idea. This
was Grey, a woman from the High Arcology Era. She was a
somewhat truncated personality, suffering from sentence-construc ting
disability because of a transcription error a century before.
She knew scientific and historical lore of her own and earlier
times. Her voice was halting and cluttered with purring static,
heavily accented with the dust of time.


I believe it . . . is what was called theoreticians . . . a
"cosmic string." They were known.. biYn Chandelier Age...
but only theory... hypothetical objects . I studied
these matters in... youth... ' ' ' ' '


"Looks real to me," Killeen muttered to himself.


We believed... they were ... made at the very earliest
moments... of... universe. You can envision... at that
time ... a cooling, expanding mass. It failed ... to be
perfectly symmetrical and uniform. Small fluctuations produced...
defects in the vacuum state... states of certain
elementary particles--


What the hell's that mean? Killeen thought irritably. He was
watching the hoop slowly cut through a slate-gray plain. Around
him the control vault had fallen into humbed silence. His Arthur
Aspect broke in:


I believe matters could proceed better if I translated from
Grey for you. She is having difficulty.


Killeen caught the waspish, haughty air the Aspect sometimes
took on when it had been consulted too infrequently for its own
tastes. He remembered his father saying to him once, "Aspects
smell better if you give 'era some air," and resolved to let them tap
into his own visual and other sensory web more often, to stave off
cabin fever. He murmured a subvocal phrase to entice the Aspect
to go on.


Think of ice freezing on the surface of a pond. As it forms
there is not quite enough area, perhaps, and so small crinkles
and overlaps appear. These ridges of denser ice mark


Gregory Benford


the boundary between regions which did manage to freeze
out smoothly. All the errors, so to speak, are squeezed into
a small perimeter. So it was with the early universe. These
exotic relics are compacted folds in space, tangles of topology.
They have mass, but they are held together primarily
by tension. They are like cables woven of warped space-time
itself.


"So what?"


Well, they are extraordinary objects, worthy of awe in their
own right. Along their lengths, Grey tells me, there is no
impediment to motion. This makes them superconductors!
--so they respond strongly to magnetic fields. As well, if
they are curved--like this one---they exert tidal forces on
matter around them. Only over a short range, however--a
few meters. I should imagine that this tidal stretching allows
it to exert pressures against solid material and cut through
it.


"Like a knife?"


Indeed--the best knife is the sharpest, and cosmic strings
are thinner than a single atom. They can slide between
molecular bonds.


"So it just slides right through everything," Killeen mused to
himself.


Yes, but, well--think of what we witness here! A flaw in the
continuity of the very laws that govern matter. Nature allows
such transgressions small room, and the discontinuity
derives a tension from its own wedged-in nature--a stress
that communicates along its stretched axis. And so we can
see this incomparably slim marvel, because it is bigger than
a planet along its length.

"So why's this one cutting through New Bishop? It just fall in by
accident?"


I sincerely doubt that such a valuable object would be
simply wandering around. Certainly not at Galactic Center,
where entities are sophisticated enough to understand their

uses·


"Somebody's usin' it? For what?"


TIDES OF LIGHT


65


That I do not know.


Grey's wispy tones sifted over Arthur's:


I heard of astronomers... observed distant strings... but
no record... of use. Were born . . . as relativistic objects
· . . but slowed down . . . through collisions with . . . galaxies...
finally came to rest... here... at Center...


When her voice faded Arthur said:


I would imagine handling such a mass is a severe technical
difficulty. Since it is a perfect superconductor, holding it in
a magnetic grip suggests itself. The sure proof of my view,
then, would be fluctuating magnetic fields in the region
near the outer part of the hoop.


Killeen recognized Arthur's usual pattern--explain, predict,
then pretend haughty withdrawal until Killeen or somebody else
could check the Aspect's prediction. He shrugged. The idea sounded
crazy, but it was worth following up.

To Shibo he said, "Can Argo analyze the magnetic fields near
that thing?"

Without answering, Shibo set up the problem. When she thought
intensely, Shibo seldom spoke.

Toby stepped forward eagerly. "Magnetic fields! Sure, I shoulda
thought. That magnetic creature, right? 'Member, back on
Snowglade? It told us then--look for the Argo, it said. You think
it's maybe followed us here, Dad?"

His Ling Aspect spat immediately:


This is a grave crisis you face. Do not let crew get out of
hand or you will have even greater difficulty.


Killeen understood Toby's exuberance, but Ling was right:

Discipline was discipline. "Midshipman, you'll kindly remain silent."
"Well, yessir, but--"
"What was that?"

"Uh . . . aye-aye, sir. But if it is the EM--"

"You'll stand at attention, mister, against the wall." Killeen
saw that Besen and Loren were grinning at their mate's dressing-down,
so he added, "All three of you--attention! Until I say
otherwise."


	66
	Gregory Benford


He turned his back on them and Shibo was at his elbow.
"Argo's detectors report strong fields there. Changing fast, too."

"Um-hmm," Killeen murmured noncommittally. He outlined
to Cermo and Shibo, and the eavesdropping midshipmen, what
Arthur had conjectured. He resorted to simple pictures, describing
magnetic fields as stretched bands that seized and pressed.
Nothing more was needed; explanations of science were little
better than incantations. None of them had a clear notion of how
magnetic fields exerted forces on matter, the geometry of currents
and potentials such a phenomenon required, or the arcane argot of
cross vector products. Magnetic fields were unseen actors in a
world unfathomable to humans, much as invisible winds had driven
Snowglade's weather and ruffled their hair.

Cermo said slowly, "But . . . but what's it for?"

Killeen said tersely, "Keep a sharp eye." Cap'ns did not
speculate.

"Maybe caused those gray, dead zones on the planet." Shibo
pointed to the devastated polar regions, which the hoop was now
approaching.

"Um-hmm," Killeen murmured noncommittally.

He felt instinctively that they should not fasten on one idea,
but leave themselves open. If New Bishop was not a proper refuge
for them, he wanted to be damn sure of that fact before launching
them on another voyage to some random target in the sky. Now
that he had a moment to recover, even this gargantuan glowing
hoop had not completely crushed his hopes that they might scratch
out an existence here.

"Why's it happening now?" Shibo mused.

"Just as we arrive?" Killeen read her thoughts. "Could be this
is what the Mantis wanted us for."

"Hope not," Shibo said with a sardonic twist of her lips.
"We had plenty bad luck already," Cermo said.

Shibo studied the board. "I'm getting something else, too."
"Where?"

"Coming up from near the south pole. Fast signals."
"What kind?"
"Like a ship."

Killeen peered at the screen. The glorious squashed circle had
cut slightly farther into the planet. It was still aligned with its
flattened face parallel to the rotation. He estimated the inner edge
would not reach the planet's axis for several more hours at least.


TIDES OF LIGHT


67


As it intruded farther, the hoop had to cut through more and more
rock, which probably slowed its progress.

Shibo shifted the view, searching the southern polar region. A
white dab of light was growing swiftly, coming toward them. It

was a dim fleck compared with the brilliant cosmic string.
"Coming toward us," she said.

"Maybe cargo headed for the station, if they're still carrying
out business as usual." He cut himseft short; it did no good to
speculate out loud. A crew liked a stony certainty in a Cap'n; he
remembered how Cap'n Fanny had let the young lieutenants
babble on with their ideas, never voicing her own and never
committing herself to any of their speculations.

He turned to Cermo. "Sound general quarters. Take up positions
to seize this craft wherever it comes in."

Cermo saluted smartly and was gone. He could just as easily
have hailed the squads of the Family from the control vault, but
preferred to go on foot. Killeen smiled at the man's relishing this
chance to take action; he shared it. Pirating a mech transport was
pure blithe amusement compared with impotently watching the
hoop cut into the heart of their world.

The three midshipcrew left hurriedly, each taking a last glance
at the screen where two mysteries of vastly different order hung,
luminous and threatening.


Chapter TWELVE

Killeen glided silently around the sleek craft, admiring its elegant
curves and economy of purpose. Its hull was a crisp ceramo-steel
that blended seamlessly into bulging flank engines. The capture
had been simple, flawless.
The squad that had seized it hovered near both large airlocks
in the ship's side. They had waited here in the station's bay, and
done nothing more than prevent six small robo mechs from hooking
up power leads and command cables to the ship's external
sockets. Without these, the craft floated inertly in the loading bay.
It was clearly a cargo drone. Killeen was relieved and a little
disappointed. They faced no threat from this ship, but they would
learn little from it, as well.

It is of ancient design. I recall the mechs' using such craft
when they transported materials to Snowglade. I believe I
could summon up memories of how to operate them, including
the difficulties of atmospheric teentry. They were
admirably simple. People of times before mine often hijacked
them for humanity's purposes.

Arthur's pedantic, precise voice continued as Killeen inspected
the loading bay. Arthur pointed out standard mechtech. The Aspect
was of more use here, where older, high-vacuum teeh seemed to
have changed little in the uncounted centuries since humanity had
been driven from space altogether. On Snowglade the mechs had
adapted faster than humans could follow, making the old Aspects
nearly useless. Arthur's growing certainty about their surroundings
in this station began to stir optimism in Killeen.

Flitters! See there?

A squad member, exploring nearby in the station, had fumbled
her way through a lock. A large panel drew aside, revealing a

TIDES OF LIGHT

69

storehouse of sleek ships similar to the cargo drone they had just
seized.

These are quick little craft that can reach the surface with
ease. I remember them well. We termed them Flitters because
they move with darting ease in both atmosphere and
deep space. Admirable for avoiding interception. That was
before the Arcologies lost control of their orbital factories.
Before the mech grip on Snowglade grew so tight.

Killeen ordered some fresh squads to inspect the storage bay
and estimate the carrying capacity of the Flitters. The Family had
explored only a fraction of the station, so it was no surprise that
this storage-and-receiving bay had eluded them. Killeen had hoped
such a place might turn up; the incoming vessel had simply
pointed the way.
A signal came on corem from Shibo. --Something's happening
with the hoop.--
Killeen quickly made his way through shafts and tunnels to the
station's disk surface. He had to juggle his elation at finding
shuttle ships which could take parties to the planet surface, against
the unyielding fact that something vast was at work on New
Bishop.
The vision that confronted him was mystifying. The hoop had
nearly reached the polar axis, he saw. But it was not moving
inward now. Instead, it seemed to turn as he watched. Its inward
edge, razor-sharp and now ruler-straight, was cutting around the
planer's axis of rotation. In a simulation provided by Shibo he saw
the hoop spinning about its flattened edge.

STATION


	70
	Gregory Benford

--It slowed its approach to the axis,-- Shibo sent. ---Then
started revolving.--

"Looks like getting faster," Killeen said.

A pause. --Yeasay . ·· the magnetic fields are stronger now,
too.--

"Look, it's slicing around the axis."

--Like cutting the core from an apple.--"Revolving
··."

--Yeasay. Picking up speed.-As
he watched, the hoop revolved completely around the axis
of New Bishop. The golden glow brightened further as if the thing
was gaining energy.

"Pretty damn fast," Killeen said uselessly, wrestling to see
what purpose such gigantic movements could have.

The simulation grew more detailed as Shibo's uncanny sympa-

thy with Argo's computers brought up more information.
He said quizzically, "That dashed line further out--"

--That's this station. We're clear of the string,-- Shibo sent.
"More like a cosmic ring," he mused. Wedcling band, he

thought. Getting married to a planet . . ·"It hitting anything?"

--Naysay. Nothing's orbiting near it.--"Looks
like somethin' in high polar orbits." He had picked up
some of the jargon from his Aspects but still had trouble with
two-dimensional pictures like this simulation.

--That's small stuff. Too far away to tell.--"Much
around the middle?"

---The equator? More small things. And a funny signal. Looks
very large one moment, then a little later it reads as small.--"Where?"

--Close in. Just skims above the atmosphere, looks like.--"Sounds
like mechtech. We've poked our hands into a beehive.
Damn!"

--There's more. I've been scanning New Bishop. Picking up
faint signals that seem human-signified.--

"People?" Killeen felt a spurt of elemental joy. A human
presence in this strange enormity . ·· "Great! Maybe we can still
live here."

--I can't tell what the signals say. Might be suit comm amped
way up. Like somebody talkin' to a crowd.--

"Try getting a fix on it."

--Yeasay, lover.-- She added a playful laugh and he realized
he was being too brusque and Cap'nly.


	TIDES OF LIGHT
	71


"You can get even in bed tonight."

---That an order?--

"You can give the orders."
--Even better.-He
laughed and turned back to the spectacle.

His mind skipped with agitated awe. It had been sheer bravado,
he thought, to name this sun Abraham's Star. A tribute to
his father, yes, and with a sudden wrenching sadness he wished
desperately that he could again talk to Abraham. It seemed he had
never had enough time to learn from his father, never enough to
tap that unpretentious certainty that Abraham had worn like a
second skin.

He recalled that weathered yet mirthful face, its casual broad
smile and warm eyes. Abraham had known the value of simple
times, of quiet days spent doing rough work with his hands, or
just strolling through the ample green fields that ringed the Citadel.

But Abraham had not been born into a simple time, and so he
had come to be a master of the canny arts humans needed. Killeen
had absorbed from him the savvy to survive when they raided
mech larders, but that was not what he remembered best. The
wry, weary face, with its perpetual promise of love and help, the
look that fathers gave their sons when they glimpsed a fraction of
themselves in their heirs--that had stayed with Killeen through
years of blood and fear that had washed away most of the Citadel's
soft images. He could not recall his mother nearly as well, perhaps
because she had died when he was quite young.

And what would Abraham say, now that his son had named a
star for him that was a caldron of vast forces, beside which humanity
was a mere fleck, a nuisance? Some promised land! Killeen
grimaced.

The hoop had finished its first revolution and begun the second,
hastening. Its inner edge did not lie exactly along New
Bishop's axis but stood a tiny fraction out from it.

As Killeen watched, the cosmic ring finished its second passage,
revolving with ever-gathering speed. The hoop seemed like
a part in some colossal engine, spinning to unknown purpose. It
glowed with a high, prickly sheen as fresh impulses shot through
it--amber, frosted blue, burnt orange--all smearing and thinning
into the rich, brimming honey gold.

--I'm picking up a whirring in the magnetic fields,-- Shibo
sent.

His Arthur Aspect immediately observed:


	72
	Gregory Benford


That is the inductive signal from the cosmic string's revolution.
It is acting like a coil of wire in a giant motor.


"What for?" Killeen dexnanded, his throat tight. Without ever
having set foot on it, he felt that New Bishop was his, the Family's,
and not some plaything in a grotesquely gargantuan contraption.
He called up his Grey Aspect.


I cannot ... understand. Clearly it moves ... to the
beck... of some unseen hand... I have never heard...
of mechs working on such a scale . . . nor of them using a
cosmic string... To be sure... strings were supposed... in
human theory... to be quite rare. They should move... at
very near the speed of light. This one must have ...
collided with the many stars ... and clouds ... slowing
it. Someone captured it ... trapped with magnetic
fields.


Arthur broke in:


A truly difficult task, of course, beyond the scope of things
human--but not, in principle, impossible. It merely demands
the manipulation of magnetic field gradients on a
scale unknown--


"What's your point?" Killeen demanded. Though the Aspect
talk streamed through his mind blindingly fast, he had no patience
for the smug, arched-eyebrow tone of Arthur's little lectures. Equations
fluttered in his left eye. They were leakage from Arthur; or
maybe the Aspect thought much mumbo jumbo would impress
him. Killeen grimaced. The Aspect had now assimilated Grey's
memories and was working with them. Grey's dusty presence
faded as Arthur continued crisply:


Simply that the cosmic string is clearly employed here in
some sort of civil-engineering sense. Shibo detects the strong
inductive electromagnetic fields generated by its revolving,
but surely this cannot be the purpose. No, it is a side effect.


"Why slice in when the cut seals up right away?"


Indeed. A puzzle, surely. Still, I can admire this object for
its beauty alone. Grey tells me that they ascribed the very
formation of the galaxies, and even whole clusters of galaxies,
to immense cosmic strings, at the very dawn of our


TIDES OF EIGHT


73


universe. Rings were once truly, cosmologically huge. Galaxies
formed from the turbulence of their passing, like
whorls behind a watercraft. As time waxed on, cosmic strings
twisted on themselves, breaking where they intersected.
Coiled strings did this repeatedly, proliferating into many
lopped-off loops---such as this magnificent fossil, apparently.


"Look, what's that thing doing?"

Somewhat miffed, Arthur said coolly:


We will have to deduce its function from its form, obviously.
Note that the absolutely straight inner edge of the
hoop stops short of exactly lying along the planet's axis.
This cannot be a mistake, not with engineers of this ability.
Clearly this offset is intended.


The hoop revolved faster and faster. Through Shibo's comm line
he could hear the distant whurnp-whump-whump of magnetic
detectors in the control vault.

"Why line up along the poles?" Killeen persisted.


I would venture to suppose that this quick revolution evokes
a pressure all around the polar axis. The faster the string
revolves, the more smoothly distributed is this pressure. It
slices free the rock close to the axis. This liberates the inner
core cylinder it has carved away, frees it from the planetary
mass farther out. The results of this I cannot see, however.


"HumphY' Killeen snorted in exasperation. "Let me know
when you have an idea."


Chapter THIRTEEN

He returned to the labyrinth of corridors within the station's
disk. Over comm he summoned two more squads to explore the
Flitters. They met him at the bay and he gave instructions for
trying to revive the craft. The Family might need to flee soon.
How they could get past the revolving hoop to reach New Bishop,
though, he had no idea. Maybe the cosmic string would go away.
Maybe it would stop. All he could do was be sure the Family had
the capability to move swiftly and then pray that some opportunity
came from that.
Around him midshipmen and other crew hurried, searching
for the right cables, calling raucously on the comm lines for input
from the Argo's ancient computer memory. Commandeering
mechtech was always chancy, dangerous business.
Killeen saw that the first squad had breached the incoming
Flitter's hold. They were prying forth crates. No time to see what
these held; he ordered the space cleared in case they should need
it. He was uncomfortably aware that they had taken the station at
a particularly lucky moment. Some vast experiment was going on
around New Bishop, and they had sneaked in while attention was
focused on that. Whatever called the tune in this star system was
distracted. But for how long?
Killeen fell to helping one work gang unload cargo. He enjoyed
the heft of real labor, using his hands, and it cleared his
mind for some unsettling questions.
Had the course settings of Argo somehow taken this cosmic
string into account? He remembered that the Mantis, years ago,
had conferred with the recently revived intelligences buried in
Argo--human-programmed machine minds of undoubted loyalty
to humankind. Had the Mantis set this course for Argo, knowing
that they would arrive when the golden hoop was at work?
It seemed fantastic, so specific a prediction at such a range,
like describing the clouds over a particular mountaintop five years

74

	TIDES OF LIGHT
	75

hence--but not, he supposed, truly impossible. Such ability, if
real, simply underlined again the unreachable heights of machine
intelligence. Killeen accepted this without a second thought; he
had never known a time when the predominance of mechminds
was not obvious.
Killeen thrust speculations aside. Events rewarded the prepared,
and he intended to act.
"Come on," he called to one of the newly arrived squads.
"These ships--try figurin' them out." He led them toward the
Flitter which had just arrived. The squad unloading it had been
forced to rejack the ship into the power cables from the station in
order to get the cargo-hold doors to open.
"Cap'n, put me in charge," Jocelyn said at his elbow. "I'll get
this one up'n runnin'."
About her eyes there was a concentrated look of unbending
discipline. She was one officer he could rely on to do a job on time
and without error. Lean and fit, the Argo years had not softened
her. She was trouble only when she got to talking with the others.
"Good," he said. "I want as many Flitters running as we can
manage."
"Enough so can carry all the Family?" she asked.
"Yeasay." She had already guessed his intention. £hey were
too exposed here. The station was some sort of shipping nexus in
an economic scheme he could not imagine, but he knew that
whatever truly ran the station would not long tolerate them. Their
victory over the mech attendants had been exhilarating but too
easy. The true governing intelligence was elsewhere.
As if to confirm this, Shibo broke in on comm. --I'm picking
up another ship coming at us. Moving fast. It's a lot bigger, too.--
"Time to pay the piper," Killeen said, repeating a mysterious
phrase his long-dead mother had used. The last musician had
vanished from the Family a century ago.
Jocelyn had heard the comm on overlap circuit. "Think it's a
boarding party, Cap'n?" she asked sharply.
"Um-hmm," Killeen said. He did not like being prompted by
crew, especially when they were right.
"We can take them right here, when they come into the bay,"
she said.
He shook his head. "They won't be that dumb, whoever they
are. Even ordinary defensive mechs, barely better than navvys,
would see that."
"We can catch 'em as they come in over the disk," she persisted.


	76
	Gregory Benford


"If they come that way. Suppose they dock up at the end
towers?"

"There?" She frowned. "We haven't got out there yet. Hadn't
thought ... But what'd be the point, puttin' a dock that far
away?"

"Boardin' when there's trouble down here, that's why," Kil-leen
said irritably. He disliked discussing tactics with crew, even
officers, because they kept him from clearing his mind of all
extraneous ideas. He needed to concentrate, decide on the best
odds in the battle he knew was coming. There could be no other
meaning to another, larger ship coming along the same trajectory
that the Flitter had followed.

"Got that first craft up and running?" he asked.

"Uh--" Jocelyn touched her left temple and conferred with
her squads over comm. "Yeasay, Cap'n. The other Flitters will

take a while. Y'know--rev up, check out, things like that."
"But the first one?"
"It's ready."

"Good. Let's move it out from the station."

Jocelyn blinked, surprised. "Uh, why?"

Killeen gave her a mirthless smile. "Just do it."

"I don't--"

"Do it, Lieutenant."

"Yessir!"

Killeen made his way up through the open cargo hold of the
Flitter just as the doors began to close behind him. He wanted to
get a full view of the station, and this was a quick way. It would be
a while-he checked with Shibo and got an exact figure, 1.68
hours--before the large craft could arrive.

He wanted to see what he could use for maneuver, what the
station could do as a defensive fortification. The immense crackling
energies that worked over the disk surface would presumably
not hinder the humans as they moved and fired at the incoming
antagonist, since they had not reacted to the Argo as it approached.
But he could be sure of nothing.

He wormed his way through narrow dark passages and soon he
was in the cramped control room, a geometrically precise cylinder
densely rimmed with electronic gear.

Jocelyn was floating beside some complex mechtech. "I've just
'bout got it revved up, Cap'n," she began. Then something abruptly
shifted. Killeen could feel ratcheting signals course through his
own sensory net.


	TIDES OF LIGHT
	77


The Flitter moved under him.

"What--?"

Jocelyn's eyes widened. "I--I dunno. This ship's movin'--but
I didn't start it."

Killeen sprang to the end of the long cylinder. It was transparent
and showed the wide loading bay beyond ... which was
drifting silently away.

"We're pulling out."

Jocelyn cried, "But I didn't--"

"I know. Something else is."

The loading bay coasted away and he saw that they were
backing out the entrance tube. The Flitter buzzed and clicked
under them, finding its head.

Killeen switched to general comm. "Unjack all Flitters!"
Faint confirming replies came back.

"What's doing this?" Jocelyn asked, punching in commands on
her wrist module. They had no effect.

"That big ship coming toward us. It's overriden our work."

"Maybe we can get out." Jocelyn tried to open the cargo-bay
doors. No response.

"We're trapped," Killeen said. His mind raced through possibilities.
Did the approaching ship know humans were inside here?

There must be an emergency exit from this craft, something
manually activated. The design of the Flitter was strange, seeming
to follow no pattern of bilateral symmetry even though the exterior
features and hull did. He would have to explore it carefully
and see what resources they could marshal.

Whatever was coming would probably unlock the Flitter to see
what sort of vermin it had caught inside. He had a quick image of
himself and Jocelyn being plucked forth and held up to the light
by something immense and terrible.

Jocelyn gazed with a pale, stricken expression out the viewport.
They were out of the bay now and the Flitter had made a powered
turn. Now it accelerated steadily away from the station, which
turned in luminous silvery glory below them.

Jocelyn gritted her teeth but did not give way to excitement.
She was a good officer. Killeen knew she thought she should
rightfully be Cap'n. Women had usually led the Family, and
Jocelyn had been Cap'n Fanny's best lieutenant.

But her normally brisk voice shook slightly as she turned to
him. "Why's . . . why's it want this Flitter?"

"We'll find out," Killeen said.


PART TWO -- STARSWARMER

ONE

Clinking
clacking
jittering,
Quath strode the slashed land.
A final hill loomed between her and the Syphon. Quath articulated
widely, legs grating, yawning--and surged over the apex.
A stone outcrop shattered against her underbelly and ground
away with a brittle shriek. Quath tuned out the wail of tearing
metal, even as she felt the alloy rip. A storage vat popped, the
sulfuric mix gurgling out.
She peered ahead. There, blooming skyward in golden plumes,
would grow the Syphon.
<Where are you, slit-eye?> came a burst in Nimfur'thon's
sweet-sour tongue.
<Coming askew you, monopod,> Quath spat in reply, though
hissing with warm friendship to take the sting from her jibe. To
call anyone one-legged was a deep insult within the elaborate
status-conventions. But the image of anything hopping about on
one pod was also funny enough to be a joke among friends.
<You will stumble, prang yourself, and be late. >
<You told me you would be far from the Syphon. Yet I read
you to be ahead of me. >
<Catch me!> Nimfur'thon sent.
<You are too close!>
<For you, maybe. Not for me.>
Quath rumbled on, edging closer to the place where the
Syphon would come. Already clouds writhed red and tortured
overhead. The golden carving line had already passed once within

79


	80
	Gregory Benford


view. Soon it would reappear, casting stark shadows. It could sear
if Quath and Nimfur'thon got too close.

<The Tukar'ramin specifically warned us! Modes of the jet can
snarl outward. >

When she and Nimfur'thon had boasted and challenged each
other to come out here they had both been brave beyond question.
Now Quath felt timid strains lacing her speech, fed from her
subminds. Those were always cautious. They demanded incessant
consultation. They made basso doubt and hesitation ride out beneath
her carrier wave. She hated how these unwanted clues to
her inner nature slipped through her filters, making her easy to
read.

Nimfur'thon said confidently, <They are mere statistical fluctuations,
low-limper friend. Feedback stabilization will catch the
bulge and tuck it back into its mother sac. >

Quath stopped to measure her position, using fixes on two
nearby peaks. No moons circled this world; for easy navigation,
she sighted on the high station captured from the mechs by her
brood. This glimmering spoil of warfare pleased Quath's subminds,
a sign of their thundering success on this world. They had deftly
gutted the mech-station superintendents, the Horde of Podia descending
with complete surprise and zestful courage. Quath was
proud to be part of such a daring thrust into an inner meeh
province.

Quath surged downhill---clanking, jingling, ringing--as her
pods found footing on skittering stones. She arrowed on Nimfur'thon's
peeping redness. Calmly, letting no color into her warble, she
said, <Still, we are very close .... >

<Monopody, you are. Stop worrying!>

Quath's mind clogged for an instant as she sensed a servo
whine hotly--eeeeeeii--in a forepod. She thought of the Tukar'ramin
safely working in the Hive, beyond the brimming ridgeline. She
and Nimfur'thon should be there, celebrating with the rest of the
Hive's brood.

Quath had tramped these hills many days with Nimfur'thon as
they labored together. They had struggled with the fluxtube
cannisters. Nimfur'thon had splintered a pod bone when a bulkhead
tipped over. She had been unable to walk without agony
until Quath fetched an artificial replacement.

Nimfur'thon's new pod shaft worked better than her natural
organic one, as usual. Quath envied Nimfur'thon the fresh pod,
making her faster; she had no natural pods left at all. Nimfur'thon's


	TIDES OF LIGHT
	81


long, prickly body gleamed with purpose, nearly all of it covered
in metallic cowlings.

The Hive had seen cause to outfit both Quath and Nimfur'thon
with the latest in advanced cybertech, whole subsystems of handsomely
self-powered organs and limbs and antennae. They were
honored to be so chosen, but that did not leach from them the
free high spirits of the young.

<Has memory fled you, Quath? We swore to slip away and
meet, to brave fierce energies and watch the plasma dance on the
hills!>

<I--we have-->

<Your ossieles overload at this small flight?> Nimfur'thon sent
in sharp chatter. In parallel she lifted a singsong, I, we have! . . ,

I, we hat;e! on a sour sideband of her carrier, taunting.

<No, I--I-->

<A groveling ground-burrower you become, Cicada-Quath.
Your thorax trumpets, but at the cusp moment-->

<Enough, cyst-sucker! I shall soon be upon you!>

Quath's bravado rang false. Like all her ground-burrowing
race, she was terrified of heights. And even more of flying. Her
subminds pealed their alarm. She mustered all her courage.

With a lurch Quath birthed a rosy egg of flame beneath her.
She jetted up a granite-flecked cliff face. All through Nimfur'thon's
chiding Quath had been planning, vectoring. Now, expending all
her reserve in one spurt, Quath arced up the stony wall and--fuel
guttering out in black fog, rockets choking down--she serab-

bled at the boulders of the peak.

Clutched.

Teetered on the brink.
Fanned the blue air----and
caught.

--Jitjitjit-eeeee--screamed a linkage, but Quath scrambled to
safety, feeling the safety-warmth as her center of gravity slid into

snug position above solid ground. Her hot fear changed to pride.
<Pay homage here!> Quath barked.

<How did you--? Ah, squeezed out your last dollop of fuel.
Not wise. > Nimfur'thon was a squat disk on the plain below,

<You bray of wisdom? You, who jibed me into ambling here?>

Quath felt suddenly exposed on this high point. She spied
sheets of phosphorescence hanging in the air--near, chillingly near.

Nimfur'thon's rippling signal now betrayed a thin thread of
doubt.


	82
	Gregory Benford


<The Syphon forms,> Quath cried.

Yellow steam gouted from far hills. Mudworked buildings
erescented that ridgeline, temporary housings for the fluxtube
formers.

<Go down the reverse side, Quath. Away from the Syphon. >

Quath scrambled downslope, sending boulders clattering with
her bumpers. <And you? We must hurry.>

<I will cross this plain. We will meet in that low rut, there>--Nimfur'thon
squirted a vectored grid image---<and watch the
Syphon. >

Quath gave a heaving grunt as she geared up in haste.
Nimfur'thon called boisterously, <We deserue a good gaze at
it. This is our first, not like a vinegar-souled multipodder who is
bored with it all. We have labored hard for these moments. >

Quath ignored these repeated justifications and focused on the
skittering gang of rocks that herded before her, racing and leaping
downhill. No moment to be buried in the embrace of pebbles, no.

She skirted a ledge, made a grinding controlled slide
<Quath---there are animals here!>
<Impossible. This area was burnt fine. >

<No, I have stirred them out with my pounding. They swarm
from their pits. >

Quath turned and crosshaired Nimfur'thon on the plain. Dots
jiggled about her graywhite disk. <Flyers. Birds. >

<No, Noughts. They are the worst. Pests, into everything.>
Nimfur'thon fired flame into the dots. They blackened and tumbled.

<Are you sure they are not mechs?> Quath felt real fear. They
had vanquished the main forces, but vagrant mechs still roamed
the hills.

<No, nothing so dangerous. Still--so many!>

<Move on! We have mere moments!>

<No. I sense there are more pests here. What if they have
gotten into the fluxtube formers? They could spoil the Syphon. >

<Forget them. Run!> Quath lurched at full gear down a
narrow ravine.

<I can pick up their thrummings now,> Nimfur'thon cried.
<There are many here. They stretch in long lines. >

<Seeking food. Grazers. But you must leave that exposed
plain. Now. > Chuffing, clenching, she jounced down the steep
cleft.

<We must call upon the Tukar'ramin. These pests could even
be inside the fluxworks-->


	TIDES OF LIGHT
	83


<Then they shall soon be scoured out, Witless one!--We cannot
call the Tukar'ramin. Forgotten, have you, that we are here
without mandate?>

<Ah, there--I have flamed the last. If there be more--->
<Forget them!>

<You are right. I come.>

The sky crinkled. Golden wealth spun toward them.
<Fly.t Time does not allow-->
<I am. I fire--->
The sky shattered.

Quath skidded to a stop, tucked in pods, and snick!--clapped
fast her ports and shields. Bushing air sang an ionized blue.

From beyond the low hills a golden wall advanced. The glowing
line had passed to the north as its revolutions increased. The
grand Cosmic Circle revolved faster, its beats making a blur. The
spinup had formed a steady cutting pressure. Now the wall of gold
moved outward from the pole, a nearly perfect cylinder that stood
and pointed through the sky.

A nearby flux station sent forth its strumning magnetic whorls,
which seized the passing distant string and flung it on its way.
Thousands of similar stations all tugged and pushed the spinally,
rushing line on its path around the planer's pole.

This tube of dancing light, the Syphon, bled color into the
bruised sky, fed ripening pink to red to orange. Wind howled and
clutched at Quath's rim, thin fingers to tip her over. Quath tuned
frantically to the brood's channel, to call out. Instead she was
flooded by the brood's view from the far ridgeline.

The fluxtube grew straight and true from the skirt of hills. It
bit the ceiling of clouds, boiling them away in a purple flash. Dark
mottlings shot up, up--in an instant heat had cleared the ivory
clouds.

Now the black of vacuum appeared, a spot forming high
above, a target coming into being as the arrow shot through it.
Stars winked new.

The upper link was forged as the tube opened on the clean
vacuum of space. Quath watched writhing amber and gray motes
climb, her eyes smarting, awed. The brood sent forth a chorus of
applause, popping and frizzing song.

*Complete!* came the Tukar'ramin's warm signal.

Now the Syphon hummed with new life deep in the rock. The
tube walls kept back the pressing solid rock on all sides--except at
the core. There immense pressures forced more metal into the


	84
	Gregory Benford


tube with each revolution. Vast stresses fought along the tube
walls. The strumming tube gnawed, burning a cylinder of stone
free of its mother world. The top faced vacuum, while below
liberated pressures pushed the freed rock upward.

*Flowing is,* the mellow, unhurried voice of the Tukar'ramin
came and the fluxtube suddenly filled.

Pearly, transparent walls of force dulled to gray. A plug of rock
was streaming out.

Quath called, <Nimfur'thon!> in the roaring, pelting gale.

The wind's pebbled teeth clattered on her skin. <Nimfur'thon.r>
<Here. I landed, but am exposed.>
<Hold there!>

<Blinded, we are, my monopoddy. This grimy breeze-->

A rolling blast burst over the hills, The fluxtube brightened.

The cylinder filled, gold to red to white.

<The core!>

--And out it spurted.

Their lance had now struck to the treasure of this world. The
tube throat was artfully shaped, fattening slightly as the whitehot
metal finneled up. The gusher of molten metal rushed from the
vast core pressures into the void of space. Riches squirted up and
out, fleeing the groaning weight.

Quath squinted. The fluxtube walls' glow hurt her many eyes.
She submerged in the flood of the Tukar'ramin's view.

Delicate streamers of green and amber danced--precious metals,
the only hoard this wretched world boasted. The Tukar'ramin's
view tilted, following a black fleck of impurity up the glowing
pipeline, starward, into sucking void, high beyond air's clutching.

There, flexing magnetic fields peeled away streamers, finding
orbits for the molten pap. The yellowing, shuddering fluid, free of
gravity's strangle, shot out into the chill. Fieturned to the spaces it
once knew, the metal coldformed, mottled, its skin crusted brown
with impurities. The birthing thread creaked and groaned in places
as it unspooled. It fractured in spots, yet kept smoothly gliding
along its gentle orbit.

Cooling, it grayed.
Graying, the threads wove.
<Quath! Something-->

Dazed, she fixed on Nimfur'thon. But the signal cut off.

She sent a burst to the Hive through a haze of noise. An
answering tone came, and the brood view at once tilted back
down the glowing strand of metal, veering into the slumped hills.


	TIDES OF LIGHT
	85


A hurricane wind had flushed clear the air. The eerie light of the
core metal dappled the plain with shadows. But something
wavered--

The tube. It twisted, hummed, curled into a helix, straight-

ened again. Light surged the walls.

A bulge formed. Grew.

Quath watched the image, awash in it. The fattening fluxtube
rippled. Flexed. And looped suddenly, faster than the eye could follow.
Out, across the plain. Its metal soup escaped. A blinding
white ball spilled over, splintering rocks, spreading.

The gray pancake of Nimfur'thon crouched in a shallow draw.
Flock above her singed where the bubbling liquid touched. The
tide hesitated and then lapped over, blackening, blackening, blackening
everything.

<Nimfur'thon!>

Now the images came too fast to comprehend.

The legs jerking. A ripping scream. Footpads melting where
they touched bubbling white. Nimfur'thon turning, her pods splintering.
Skin popping open. Guts pouring out--to flame into brown
smoke.

Nimfur'thon's walking pods melted slowly into the ooze. Her
manipulating pods clutched frantically at the sky, as if to pull
herself up.

Orange plumes cracked the upper bulkhead. Armpods beat at
the flames in spasms. Yellow tongues ate. A bulkhead blew open.
Gobbets spattered.

This was the way Quath would remember Nimfur'thon. The
vision seared away all other memories. For what seemed a long
time Quath could see nothing but this licking moment of death.
Her opticals registered other inputs, but her mind rejected them.
She stood frozen. Silent. She began to tremble.


Chapter TWO

The Syphon guttered out. Colossal magnetic knots crimped the
flow. The glowing wall of pressure became again the lone cosmic
string, its golden razor beauty hanging at the poles of the planet.
A calm returned. Above, a dark tangle of coldhardened core metal
orbited. Forms moved among this newly grown maze, polishing,
cutting, making vast works.
The helical instability was diagnosed. There was indeed sign of
Nought interference.
Labor parties crossed the plain toward the fluxworks. They
carried Nimfur'thon's remains, sectioned, back to the Hive. Few
spoke to Quath, not because they considered her shamed--in-spection
of Nimfur'thon's tracer log showed the risk was her
own--but rather because they were busy restoring the fluxtube
projectors, which had fused to slag.
As the teams labored, Quath sloughed back to the Hive. Her
joints and seams ached from pinprick damage. Dannfvver, assistant
in training to the Tukar'ramin, sent beeping questions during
Quath's march, asking details of how the two had maneuvered so
close, and--from supple dartings of phrases--sensed the cloud
that now descended over Quath.
There followed a rest period which Quath tried to embrace.
She failed. She felt in the warren walls the strumming of motion
from other multipodia, who did not rest. She listened to the
urgent, fever-shot data that would not let her sleep.
The looping instability was a setback, throwing off their schedule.
Legions of their fellow strandsharers orbited far in space
beyond the Cosmic Circle. They awaited the gouts of metal to
begin their weave. The pace in the Hive must quicken, then.
Finally she silenced her subminds' irksome voices. She fell into a
slumber gratefully, legs folded close and tight in the slick webbing;
for something dark pursed her.
Quath woke panting, pods tangled, the speckling of her tra-

86

	TIDES OF LIGHT
	87

cheae bulging red, yellow, red again in hasty rhythm. A buzzing
call for her echoed through the groined alcove. Quath answered
and found a summons from Dannfvver.
She dismounted anxiously. Her mind was a snarled maze. Her
hydraulics knotted and filled with a pressing ache.
Hastily she smeared a vomit drop on an acid spore. This eaten,
Quath hobbled forth, favoring one leg which had splintered a
knee. She limped through vaults astir with work. A pentapod
hailed, but otherwise she was ignored. This was nothing new, and
in fact was what Quath desired this day. The weight that had
descended upon her did not welcome company.
<You realize that you are blameful?> droned Danni'vver at
the entrance to the central chasm.
<Of necessity. >
<Your Ascension will be slowed. >
<Yes. >
<Addition of a manipulating arm, to render you>--Dannfvver
consulted her slate, rather than look directly at Quath-<pentapod,
will be delayed. >
<Yes. >
<It is good that you reconcile so easily. Some do not have that
ability, though they be myriapodia. >
<Yes. >
Danni'vver flicked open a port in her barnacled hide. Moistly
she studied Quath for a long moment and said, <Despite your
error, the Tukar'ramin will enter you. >
Quath felt the spaces within her suddenly burst. Fear flooded
out. Awe squeezed her spiracles shut until the air wheezed through
tight slits. Embarrassed, she was sure Dannfvver would notice.
The wall parted with a soft rumble that covered Quath's rasping
breath. Quath teetered forward on stiffening limbs. She knew she
would be seen for what she was.
*Terror pins you.*
The shimmering thought came as she gazed up, tilting to
register the height. A vast bulk moved in the webs. Moist beads
drifted in a tingling cloud. Massive arched stoneworks gave the
hushed air a pressing weight.
Quath began, <Abbess, I have abysmal sorrow-->
*Do not attempt to state your inner self. I see.*
Vibrant light played in the Tukar'ramin's body, which spanned
the upper chasm. Quath had never been alone with such an


	88
	Gregory Benford

august being. She struggled to take it all in. The bulbous presence
bristled with uncountable legs.
She felt a probing. Fine wires laced through the muddy inside
of her. She dully sensed a phantasm dancing, spinning--and then
gone, evaporated.
*It is not Nimfur'thon's death that infests you.*
The words rang cold though they floated awash and welcoming
in Tukar'ramin's warm sea.
<No. I fear some, some>
*Cease. The weight you carry must be lifted by degrees.
Immersion in our Path will help.*
<I know the Path.>
*No myriapod can trace more than a branch or two of the
Path, Quath'jutt'kkal'thon. Do not add arrogance to your burden.*
<I--> The pressing fear welled up again and Quath sucked in
breath to cry out.
*I see it. Know it. But you must journey through that mossing.*
<But ira>
*The Factotum vill show you the Chronicle to a depth you
have not seen. Explore it. See the sveep of us. This will restore
you. *
Quath left, stumbling on numbed pods, spiracles sucking and
bristling in agitation.

Chapter THREE

Within the Chronicle, time engulfed Quath.
The Factotum--a dry, fussy sort had left her moored in a
cloying mesh that reeked of use by many bipodia. This place was
usually used for the elementary education of the very young, the
slow-witted.
Quath could barely remember that phase. She had been totally
natural, then, with no machine-augmented capacity. Weak, soft,
dumb. She had memorized the Verities of the Chronicle, of course.
Now it all felt useless to her. She had lost her faith.
So now she was back here. Among the smells of youth. Hel-meted,
pinpricked in all her senses.
And before her gaze the vast story opened.
She knew the outlines, had learned this lore without ever truly
thinking about it. Images of antiquity flitted by. For the ancient
multipodia life was uncaring, a sweet gambol. Even myriapodia
lounged amid luxuriant sticky strands. They basked, pap-gorged.
Yet in time the race spread over the homeworld. The sciences
and philosophies of those distant times were numbed by the
pervading slackness.
The podia had not always been this way. In early drawings
fierce, long-extinct animals took the pincer in their throats, struggled
mightily, went still. Lazy though they had been, the ancients
had cleared their world of such vermin.
Unchallenged, the race lounged. But their parent star had
arced into the inner precincts of the Galactic Center. Mechs
began to foray into the realm of the podia. The enormity of mech
purpose became clear. Only by reproducing at a fevered pace
could the podia match the mechs' expansive verve.
Their slit-eyed spirit revived. After that came scientific discoveries
that made sense of all things.
What is your concern? The Factotum was ever alert, feeding
Quath a torrent of data, all encoded in hormonal tangs and filigrees.

89


	90
	Gregory Benford


<I . . . I am here because the Tukar'ramin . . .>

You would like some educational facet of the Chronicle?
<Very well. >

Quath was in a vagrant mood. Her mind skittered on the
surface of a teardrop that shimmered like a planet, surface tension
tugging her to skate on its icy sheen. She braced herself as finely
orchestrated scents began singing "Harnessing the Collapsed Stars."

The introduction quickly shuffled through conventional lore.
Suns' deep fires inevitably ebbed. The nearly burntout stars im-ploded,
their pyre a flash seen across the galaxy. The smaller ones
left cores of pure neutrons. Spinning, their polar caps spitting out
particles, they beamed frantic searchlights, pulsing steadily: galactic
lighthouses. A useful source of energy.

Once the spinning slowed, podia could approach. Teams of
strandsharers blocked the circling streams of particles, dammed
the energy, silencing the pulsar, converting it to useful purposes.

They had found that mechs were drawn to pulsars, not only for
their wealth of energy but for gargantuan scientific experiments.
The purpose of these elaborate works, carried out above the poles
of pulsars as they gushed electron-positron plasmas, remained
unknown.

Mechs had stimulated suns to supernova throughout the zone
surrounding Galactic Center--apparently, to generate pulsars. By
laying traps for mech squadrons in near pulsars, the podia had
enjoyed their first military successes.

Without warning, terrible fear welled up. Quath met it for the
first time in the images swimming before her.

A nebula shimmered with the delicate pink of birthing stars.
Nearer, a pulsar flickered, gravestone for a vanquished sun.

Across the thin sheet of light oozed a dustcloud, blotting the
nebular face--a precise image of the death that awaited all the
podia, all beings, everything.

Nimfur'thon first singed brown and then blackening, her flesh
crisp and brittle, cracking away.

Nimfur'thon was nothing now, gone. Quath felt sadness for her
strandsharer, for the spirit that had quadded simply with her in
the Hive warrens. But that sadness was the mere skin of the beast
that slouched below, the thing that Quath could not voice to
herself until this moment, as the dustlanes blotted the nebula's
fair glimmering.

Dust. Darkness. All-swallowing death.

Quath felt a chill of dread, not for Nimfur'thon but for herself.


TIDES OF LIGHT


91


Quath pressed for the Factotum.

Yes? Your instruction is not complete-

<Forget that. I want the Chronicle again. Tell me about the
Interlopers. >

The usual history was there, in abundance. How the ages-long
war with the mechs began. How the race had seen the challenge.
How the highest of all the podia, the Illuminates, understood
what the landscape of science had implied: the holy cosmic view.

But not all agreed. Dissenters called the Interlopers opposed
the Synthesis. Debate raged. Finally, all disagreement was banished,
liberating the energies of the race. Then, knowing the
truth, the race went on to---

Quath clicked off this standard stuff.

Yes?

<The Interlopers--their teachings? Those are not mentioned. >
That is not customarily requested.
<I do now request it. >

Was there a hesitation? Well. I suppose . . .

A gloss of more history. Dates, places, facts--planets and
aeons, now all faded. Then, plunging on, Quath was suddenly in
the midst of the Interloper vision, as quoted in their texts.

The death of the individual was a fact, they said, brute and
unavoidable. There was no rebirth for each of the podia. There
was no hidden message in science.

A resonant, silky voice sang from some ancient bower:


IT IS OUR STATION TO LIVE WITHIN LAWS THAT GIVE US BEING,
BUT OFFER OF THEMSELVES NO PURPOSE OR PROMISE, NO
TRIUMPH AS A SPECIES. THE UNIVERSE ALLOWS US A PLACE
IN ITS SYSTEMATIC WORKINGS BUT ONLY CARES FOR THE
SYSTEM ITSELF, NOT US.


Quath gasped, to see such things so baldly stated.

Yet she felt an answering dread inside herself, a swelling
feeling of greeting. These ideas she too held. The crisping
moment of Nim'furthon's death had brought these thoughts forth.
They would not submerge again, ever. She listened further to the
soft, confident voice that chanted its final truth:


EVEN THIS MANNER OF STATING THE TRUTH MISLEADS.

THE WORLD OUTSIDE OURSELVES

IS IN FACT INCAPABLE OF CARING. WE EXIST


	92
	Gregory Benford



AS RANDOM HAPPENINGS IN A WORLD WHICH IS ORDERLY
IN ITS LAWS, BUT WITHOUT ANY PLAN BEYOND
THE GRAVID WORKINGS OF DYNAMICS.

Quath recoiled, as though an eating strand had suddenly writhed
and turned into a serpent.
Here it was, what she had feared. Now it was substantial and
unmoving, a solid chunk of history. Other podia had seen the
same vast chewing abyss. The world was a rotten, hollow thing.
One touch and it split.
Quath's hearts pumped erratically; she could sense each thumping
liquid surge through a different tube. Hormones showered her,
rendering with tangs and savory threads the dry drumroll of history.
The heretics easily refuted the Synthesis by which Quath had
lived. History, carved by a different knife, became unrecognizable.
There was talk of religious mania induced by the merciless, unending
mech war.
But the Synthesis was not religion, Quath argued to herself, it
was a philosophical discovery. Religions had come and gone before.
None had caused the podia to rise as one.
Unrelenting, the hormone-savored logic rolled on, over Quath's
objections. The Illuminates had come into full being in that vastly
ancient time. Their iron rule prevailed.
Images flared, one by one: spindly podia smashing nests, cutting
strands. Disbelievers gutted, wailing, and left hanging to
shrivel under strange suns.
The Synthesis spoke of rational podia seeking the light, Quath
heard. But she could not quell her own thoughts. Did this look
like the labors of logic? How could the Synthesis be so sure of its
assumptions?
She abruptly yanked away. The Factotum must have been
watching closely. You leave?
Angrily, Quath spat, <Yes, yes. So?>
It is not done. No benefit accrues from-- and the Factotum
launched into a hoary, cobwebbed oration.
<Surely, Factotum, surely,> she interrupted. <I am disturbed
by the heretical lies, that is all. Forget what I said. >
Quath realized that the Factotum would take the words literally
and erase the conversation. Perhaps that was just as well. The
poor creature could not deal with these questions.
Perhaps, Quath told herself grimly, no podia could.
Then why was she so burdened?

Chapter FOUR

Beq'qdahl clacked by, moving rapidly and well.
<Confluence will begin soon, > she called.
<What?> Quath, distracted by a robot resetting the sleeve of
her injured leg, glanced up.
<The confluence for Nimfur'thon, slit-eye. >
Beq'qdahl canted her forelegs back with easy grace, her thorax
colors and fuzzed eyes rippling with wry humor. Eyelet hairs
dilated outward in waves to signify strandsharer fellowship. She
added, <You have not forgotten already, I hope?>
Quath burned with embarrassment. Whenever she thought of
Nimfur'thon the persistent nightmare flooded all other memories.
<Of course not. Some mourn in private. >
<A point. I will see you then. >
Quath decided to cover her confusion with a sly dig: <I have
not noticed much public mourning, however. >
Beq'qdahl caught the hint in the words. <Meaning we all
should do what you do not?> She pursed her anal cavity to show
her remark carried sting.
<At least I haven't been striving to transfer into orbital
weaving. >
<So you haven't. A good idea not to. You are inexperienced. >
<Your eyes grow drool-dimmed,> Quath said sharply. <You
mistake this crippled leg shell. I carry four pods, as you. >
<And have done so longer, I'm sure you will soon add. >
<The thought does leap to the lobes. >
<Very well.> Beq'qdahl settled into knee-cock, raak, raak. <You think I overclimb?>
<You came here a quad. I spanned less area than you, it is
true, but I did have four legs. I still do. We all aspire to do orbital
xveaving, of course, but your arrogant attitude-->
<You are a grub indeed. My ambition is to replace the
Tukar'ramin herself. >


	94
	Gregory Benford


Quath smoothed her eyelet hairs and oozed red pap through

them to show lacings of anger barely held in check. <Incredible!>
<Not so. I am not a ground-hugger like you. >

Quath flared. Her fear of heights and of flying was a barb
in her flesh. <You fever-dream. Next you will say you intend to
become an Illuminate. >

Beq'qdahl was surprised. <Dung-speaker! Be careful. The

Illuminates transcend us utterly. Someone may overhear.>
<They came from such as us,> Quath said,
<But are far augmented beyond our realm. >
<No one is beyond question. >

<True, but it is smart to pretend otherwise. >

Quath spat back, <I want the truth, whatever it is. I will
pretend nothing. >

A pause, <Does something vex you? You speak brave words
but your cilia, your thorax spectrum--they say otherwise.>

Disquiet darted through Quath. Could Beq'qdahl read what
she truly felt? Did Beq'qdahl know her doubts? Exposure could
ruin Quath's future.

Quath started to compose a crushing remark and then thought
better of it. <My thoughts are my own. >

<Very well. I hope your precious selfhood remains composed,
even after I am promoted above you. > Beq'qdahl clattered her
ossicles in jeering symphony, excreting bile juice from their seams,
flooding the tunnel with an acrid smoke.

<If we be rivals, let there be no pretending otherwise!> She
exited, clanking a rear waste port.

Quath brushed away a ratlike service robot which was polishing
its handiwork, Quath's new pod. Beq'qdahl was a competitor,
of that one could be sure. For a passing moment Quath had
wanted to unburden herself to Beq'qdahl. That would have been
an error. No one could help. But still... if she could find even a
gesture, a word . . .

Stamping heavily out of the tunnel to try the fixed pod, ringing
and clacking, she noticed a reference output in the ceramic wall.
Something nagged at her, something from the simmering anxiety
within. She punched for General Information, gave indices, and
scanned the flowing text:


THE SYNTHESIS: (1) REALIZATION THAT A CONTINUITY EXISTS
BETWEEN INERT MATTER, THROUGH THE GRAND DESIGN
OF THE EARLY UNIVERSE, AND INTELLIGENT LIFE TODAY.


TIDES OF LIGHT


95


NOW ACCEPTED BY ALL, THIS COSMIC PERSPECTIVE MAY

BE SEEN AS A CULMINATION OF ALL THE ANCIENT RELI-

GIONS, THOUGH OF COURSE IT IS ERECTED ON A FIRM

FOUNDATION OF SCIENTIFIC . . .


Continuity. That meant things went on. Stated so baldly, in
austere and objective lines, the phrases had a certain power.

A tiny crevice, but Quath took shelter there.


Chapter FIVE

The podia assembled for the confluence in a cavern deep in the
Hive burrows. They had carved it when first arriving here, even
while they ripped and scoured whole mech legions. This cavern
recalled their ancient origins. Watery images of the mingling,
chattering podia reflected from the steepled, glossy walls. Scrab-bling
pupa had polished the rude stone while they mewled and
played.
Danni'vver appeared at the entrance of the confluence portal.
She issued the ritual call, syllables booming down from the arched
ceiling.
For this occasion none wore the gray, rough work sheaths of
laborers. Instead, there were ample ballooned legments. Some
sported rosy crescents of flapping headdress. Fuzzed cilia rippled.
Rainbow washes of sweet-scented pus set off artfully inflamed
eyelets. Teased tracheae plumes and carapaces of steel-blue sheen
exalted their wearers. Some played with pearly castanets of animal
bone jangling from each legjoint. Old myriapodia showed fresh
encrustations of mica or baked pumice.
Those recently promoted found opportunities to display the
gleaming leg they had earned, polished and bright amid the tangle
of their tarnished pods. Others flaunted ringing, coppery antennae.
Or huge ebony tusks. New quartz lenseyes oozed spectra like
jewels in oil. Those recently augmented with artificial digestive
tracts sported swollen bladders which throbbed with recently
pulped food.
The tardy podia swarmed up the laddered strands and into the
confluence hole. As they creaked into knee-cock, Nimfur'thon's
image formed above them. The traditional invocation began. A
resounding voice thanked the laborers for quitting their tasks, to
come and honor a fallen strandsharer. Quath paid close attention
though some nearby buzzed with gossip. Then--incredibly!--the
Tukar'ramin appeared on high far above Nimfur'thon.

96

	TIDES OF LIGHT
	97

Everyone gaped. Never had the Tukar'ramin deigued to crone
before them all. <What! Why?> someone blurted.
Seeming not to notice the shock she had caused, the Tukar'ramin
filled the huge chamber with her resonant voice. She intoned the
Verities. Quath listened intently as the ancient story unfolded,
trying to pry fresh meaning from it.
The litany was, of course, quite true and grand. It told how
perturbations elumped balls of spinning gas, which in tiine flattened
into galaxies. The collapsing cores of young galaxies then
flared hot: quasars. Those death throes were burning beacons
across an abyss so vast that distance dimmed them to pinpricks of
radiance. Yet the podia had deduced that at their center lurked
immense black holes of a billion stellar masses or more, holding in
a vast grip the surrounding roiling dust.
So it was in all galaxies, down to our very own. *The black
holes spin and suck, spin and suck,* the Tukar'ramin said.
So the grip of matter's evolution went on. Accretion disks
swirled about the black holes. Tidal forces ground stars to dust.
Inductive electrodynamic fields drove great swarms of particles
out from these disks, like geysers. Only in the benign outer
districts of a galaxy are there mild conditions for the origin of
organic life.
*Thus do we glimpse across the refracting curvature of the
universe itself only the pyres of huge ancient catastrophes. The
burning of matter itself. The graves of suns.* The Tukar'rmnin
made the spectacle unfold before thein. Galaxies churned and
flared and died across the walls of the chasm.
Yet this was only the opening act in a grand drama. In the
quiet, unseen, wheeling disks of ordinary galaxies, the Verity
went onward. Stars baked heavy elements. Carbon wedded to
oxygen, phosphorus, nitrogen, hydrogen. They thrived. Planets
spun. Life struggled up.
Opposing this flowering of natural workings were the meehs.
They pitted themselves in vicious, eternal war with sovereign life.
Quath became drowsy. Many legs rustled impatiently. Multipodia
nearby sent covert chatter on their private bandxvidths. The
Tukar'ramin surely overheard them, but still droned on. The
familiar litany:
Noughts. Life that was Nought mastered the energy resources
of a world. These were simple, unsophisticated races. The first
stage. Divine evolution decreed that Noughts must leave the
stage. Their lands became grist for the next stage.


	98
	Gregory Benford


Primes. Life coming to Prime converted whole stars to useful
purpose: the second level. Their works could be seen across the
galactic arms, those chasms of dark and confusion. Such races
wrote their names large on the open slate of dumb, blank matter.

The podia were surely Primes now--this much they had risen.
They knew their purpose.

Starswarmers. This was the podia's goal. Starswarmers mastered
the colossal energy sources of the galaxy itself.

Such a torrent, used to signal across the gulf between galaxies,
could send word of the podia to the entire universe. This was
their destiny: Starswarmers.

If the podia could master the energy of the center of their own
comparatively mild and inconsequential galaxy, they could yet
play a role on the largest of all stages, the singing communications
between the great lakes of stars. Thus could they harvest the lore
of ancient times and share the gathering destiny of other Star-swarmers.

The Summation, the merging of all that was best in the universe,
would follow.

The Tukar'ramin followed the ageold text, as handed down by
the Illuminates:

*--all strandsharers, near and far, fiat and thin, sorbed and
heed. All shall lick of it in company. That supreme moment shall
surely come, when mind dominates matter at last and turns it to
the purposes of the Swarmers. The race to entropy death shall be
halted. Mind will rule, As the atoms of our bones and metals were
cooked in the first stars, so shall we return to oneness with the
universe and...*

Something coiled inside Quath. In the spiral arms flaring with
crisp orange supernovas she saw not stars craning out of nothing,
but instead black dust eating all, a relentless tide of filth that

swamped the ember ruby suns-

<But vhat of us?>

Her voice shattered the Verities. The confluence ceremony fell
into shocked silence. Quath discovered she had risen from knee-cock
to full stature.

*You have a question? That is proper, my strandsharer.*

But no one ever asked questions in confluence, ever, and
everyone knew it.

<Why do you say we will be rejoined in the Summation?>
*All life will find rebirth.*

<Where will we be hiding in the meantime?>


TIDES OF LIGHT


99


*In waiting. *

<Will we know it?>

*In a sense.*
<Even though we're dead? Like Nimfur'thon?>

*It will be like sleeping time. *
Above, the Tukar'ramin loomed vast and glistening, anchored
to gossamer strands. Quath heard a muttering of discontent around
her. But she pressed on:

<All of us there, together?>

*Information does not ever truly vanish in the universe, if we
can elude entropy's gnawing jaws. That is our aim. *

<But we haven't! We are only beginning to be Starswarmers. >

*Quath)utt'kkal'thon ..., Using Quath's full name, the
Tukar'ramin lowered a probiscus entrusted with fertile sensors,
peering. Her cilia rippled with concern. *It is better to think of
the Summation as something far larger than yourself. For such it
is.*

<Of course, I know, but-->

*We live on in the sense that our works live. What we are
lives. Our vector sum abides in the universe forever.*
<But are we conscious of it?>

*That, I think, is unknown.*
<But it's the whole point!>
'I do not believe so.*

This reduction of the center of the matter to, to an opinion,

stunned Quath, Without this peg the edifice collapsed.
<Will the Illuminates survive forever?>

*That is not given to us to know.*
Several of the elderly myriapodia sent discreet low-freqnency
signals to Quath, urging an end. Other podia murmured and
rustled.

*Remember, it is the essence of us which propagates.*
More homilies. Quath felt a sudden rush of embarrassment at
being so exposed. They all mutely accepted, all of them, They
kept silent. Which meant that none truly believed. Only stupid,
blind Quath still questioned. '

*This has proved to be a blossoming exchange, Are your
quandaries resolved?*

<I... yes.>

'I suspect you are more disturbed by Nimfur'thon's passing
than the rest of us. Know that we understand.*

<I... I know. > To cover her fear and confusion she retreated


	100
	Gregory Benford

into the ritual of <I give thanks.> Quath returned to knee-cock, raak, raak.
Podia nearby pinched their cilia in disapproval. Beq'qdahl
openly jibed.
The unfalum, their shared holy food, passed from pineer to
pineer. Quath took a strand numbly, engorged it, and began to
pull the sticky wad into strings. The manipulae inside her mouth
tugged the sweet filaments and spread them into sheets, expanding
the surface area. Fine-boned manipulae pressed these against
tasting buds, to heighten the sense. Quath sat and worked her
mouth, as did the others.
Why was she alone burdened with these doubts? Quath wondered.
Yet she could not give them up.
The confluence ended with singing and smacking noises as
they devoured the last of the unfalum. Quath made a show of clenching her thorax, but no matter how thinly she pressed the unfalum, somehow Quath could not swallow, could not truly eat of
the essence of their shared vision.

Chapter SIX

That evening she podded away from the Hive, which floated
shadowlike above a wrecked dry plain. She wandered among the
hills north of the Syphon. Tomorrow she would return to the
ferment of work, but now something drew her out of the secure
warrens.
The land trembled as though this planet were breathing. If so,
Quath thought in her distraction, the world would begin to gasp
its last quite soon enough. Inexplicably, the image disturbed her.
A roof of clouds drifted overhead, bellies bulging blue with
rain. A wan glow from the setting sun drenched the landscape in
lazy oranges and reds. Quath shifted to transopticals and saw the
Cosmic Circle in orbit, inert and dull without the prodding of the
podia's magnetic fields.
She longed to labor up there, to help fling the incredible
sharpness of the Circle into the breast of this dying mudball. That was glory, honor, destiny.
The Circle was the most precious of her race's natural resources.
The names of the podia who had found and captured the
Circle would ring down through history forever. Possession of the
Circle gave the podia the key to slitting the throats of whole
worlds. They had used it against the mechs who opposed their
move into Galactic Center.
It could be hurled against mech craft at immense speed. After
it had chopped ships, there was a way to make it suddenly radiate
enormous bursts of electromagnetic radiation, frying all unprotected
mechs within an entire solar system. The Circle Masters
were benefactors and warriors beyond all comparison in the history
of the podia. Quath was proud to tread the ruptured ground
beneath their handiwork.
On this rumpled plain mech ruins clogged the ravines. Smashed
mech factories gaped like rotted teeth. Mech carcasses still smoked
from past battles. Podia had stripped others of useful parts so that

101


	102
	Gregory Benford

only the shell remained. Quath swelled with pride at the devastation
her kind had wrought.

Even this lightly defended world had demanded the best of
the podia. They had fallen upon it while the local mechs were
beset by internal struggles. The Illuminates had detected signs of
exceptionally vicious mech intercity competition. Those wise beings
had then ordered the Hives to descend. Once enough of the
surface was secured for construction of the magnetic clamping
stations, the Cosmic Circle had been brought into play. Their
victory here opened the possibility of penetrating into the mech
fortress stars even closer to the tantalizing core of the whirlpool
galaxy.

A herd of grazing animals caught sight of Quath and scattered,
pell-mell. Even for animals, they seemed stupid and graceless. To
think Nimfur'thon had hesitated a precious time too long, out of
concern over such base creatures! This was a crude planet, incapable
of hatching more than Noughts in its scum of sea and sky.

Some scattered Noughts--mere planet-bound creatures, with
crude devices--remained here. Only after the mech defeat had
the podia even noticed them. Disemboweling their world would
finish such trivial beings.

Yet some podia still fell to their assaults. Even such minor
creatures could hurl podia into the blackness that Quath now
knew to be everywhere, behind each apparently solid object.

As it had swallowed Nimfur'thon, so it would, inevitably, suck
down Quath, the Tukar'ramin, everyone, everyone and everything,
making a vile joke of continuity.

Quath plucked up a boulder in irritation and flung it skyward,
arcing toward a distant herd of dull-witted grazers. The stone
smashed great holes as it bounded through them, felling a few.
Smaller animals hopped in panic from their holes. They melted
into the shadowed dusk and Quath turned, weary, back to the
floating alabaster mountain that was the Hive.


The Syphon lanced skyward again. This time the Cosmic
Circle held steady in its course and the Syphon did not snake
sideways. No burning lash fell, letting streaming yellow gush
forth.

The podia took special care with this first successful firing. The
Circle spun perfectly, caressed by sinewy fields. They would have
to repeat the exercise many times before abandoning this scrap of


	TIDES OF LIGHT
	103


a world, each time made a bit more difficult because of the
shifting pressures below as the planetary mantle collapsed.

Quath took refuge in the bustle of work. She volunteered for
excess time at the feedback-stabilization monitor. Canted forward
to sense the rippling green display, integrating differential inputs,
she felt the pressing hollowness of life lift away. If there was no
redeeming facet in things, at least there was this: A blur of activity
hid the fact that activity meant, finally, nothing.

As the Syphon steadied its rush of core metals, the Hive lifted
farther. Quath watched from a viewing blister. The ground below
heaved and broke, spurting fountains of dust. The land groaned.
Pebbles rattled on the blister's underbelly. Animals stumbled in
panic as hills slumped. Pits opened beneath their feet.

Quath felt her resting strands quiver and she turned, away
from the chaos outside. Beq'qdahl nimbly enveloped herself in a

webbing, saying, <A good show.>

<Yes. >

<I think we'll start mining tomorrow. >

Quath allowed herself a glance at Beq'qdahl's large, hairy
mass. <You're looking forward to it?>

<Isn't everybody? It's a chance to show what you can do on
your own. >

Quath had not thought of mining that way, but Beq'qdahl's
self-assurance made the point obvious. With each sucking of the
Syphon the crust churned, exposing fresh seams of rare minerals.
Many ores were needed in the thermweb weaving now going on
in orbit. To thread the great bands of coldformed nickel-iron
required bonding pastes and weldings, so freighters lofted a steady
stream of mixed materials from the surface.

Captured mech ships and a large orbital station aided this.
Quath and Beq'qdahl had both been privileged to pilot flights to
the captured mech station, the nearest they had gotten to where
the orbital weavers conjured their deft magic.

No hope of such lofty labor now. All surface-working podia had
to find rich upturned seams. All who could be spared became
prospectors.

<It is boring work,> Quath said.
<So say they who do not do it well.>
<I would prefer focusing the Syphon. >
<That's just puzzle-work. No real zest in it. >
<It is intellectually more difficult to-->

<Oh, never would I question your intellectual credentials.>


	104
	Gregory Benford

Beq'qdahl dipped her proboscis sarcastically, impaling on it a burr
of spitfood. <Particularly after your brilliant cross-examination of
the Tukar'ramin. >
Quath bristled cilia. <I was seeking answers.>
<To grub-stupid questions. What does all that matter?>
Beq'qdahl plucked a mite from a moist slickstrand.
<It is everything. >
<Talk, mere talk. We are here to act.>
<But what is the purpose, when-->
Beq'qdahl leaned closer gracefully, her hydraulics wheezing.
<The purpose, slit-eye, is to get into orbit. To weave, not hug the
ground like a grub. >
Quath framed a reply and suddenly saw that Beq'qdahl would
be a success. Beq'qdahl's smooth, successful, uncaring manner
came naturally because she was in touch with deeper wellsprings,
she sensed the way things truly were. And in that clear world, the
Synthesis was talk and the Summation a promised sugar dollop
meant to quiet children, not a thing podia took seriously for long.
That world was real. Relentlessly real.

Chapter SEVEN

Gathering call, came the beep, slicing through Quath's concentration.
She crunched over crumbling slag and looked for silvery
green streaks.
Gathering call.
She slipped a needle into the flaking silver-green, measured
and clattered her ossicles in frustration. The stuff wasn't palazinia. Finding a lode of palazinia, the rarest of the bonding pastes,
would have been a coup. This scrap, glinting falsely--Quath kicked
at it--was worthless.
Gathering call.
She answered, dreading.
Rendezvous[ Noble Beq'qdahl has found a deep seam of-- Savagely she clicked the message off. Another feat for Beq'qdahl.
This was the fifth important find since the prospecting and
mining had begun, all Beq'qdahl's. Most of the other podia were
kept busy mining Beq'qdahl's discoveries, leaving the field clear
for Beq'qdahl to find more, to stand out even better. Quath had
pondered giving up prospecting--she wasn't good at searching;
she moped and rambled when she should scuttle, ferretlike, poking
into every cranny--and becoming a miner. But something
inside made Quath keep on, trying to best Beq'qdahl. She would
not yield the ground so easily. If only--
Quath utt'kkal' thon. Summons[
<I was delayed. Am proceeding to-->
No. Do not rendezvous. Return to the Hive. To the Tukar'ramin.

Down slippery strands slid the Tukar'ramin, a great glistening
mass of polished steel and grainy carapace. Gusts of warm well-being
spread through Quath as feelers stole into her mind, sensing
all. Nervous, jittery tensions smoothed away.
*Rejoice, small one.*
<All celebrate, in your presence. >

105


	106
	Gregory Benford


*No formalisms please; they tax the mind by seeming to mean
something. Rejoice, because you need no longer slough the crumbled
land. I know you dislike that.*

<I have been so . . . obvious?>

The Tukar'ramin drew Quath nearer, washing her with comfort
and forgiveness.

*Your doubts drag at every step you make.*
<I have kept to the task.> The words came out more stiffly
than she intended, but Quath clutched at the phrase out of a sense
of dignity.

*Must you always go sober-suited?*
<I . . ,> She hesitated, How to tell this most enfolding of all
creatures that the snug universe was a vortex, sucking them all
down to nothing? <I am a mere quadpodder and more solitary. >

*But Beq'qdahl is solitary, too. Alone, seeking rare soils. Her
pods do not shamble as yours do.*

Beq'qdahl again! Qnath said primly, <We each have our
ways. >

*But you are none of you alone!* Faint, chiding exasperation.

*We are bound on the great, final task. The thermweaves we spin
around this star will clasp firm its burning energy. Our fellow
podia will soon harness the crackling electrodynamics of the Galactic
Center which rage nearby. Soon we shall combine all such
energies. Thus gathered, and the mechs banished--and who can
doubt that we shall do so, given our great victory here? we can
use the tamed power to communicate with other Starswarmers
in far galaxies.*

<I fully perceive this. Yet-->

*I lick you do not. We span the galaxy to bring meaning to
matter. Not simply within our own minds--the castles of besieged
reason but in the stars themselves.* She made the eight-legged
sign.

Quath shuffled, not knowing what to reply.

'I sense your tinease remains.*

Quath sent a sharp command to her podding subtask brain,
willing its nervous dance to cease. <I, I have no vector.>

When the Tukar'ramin spoke again, gaudy hormonal spurts
brought a new gravity to the resonant words. *You are a manifestation
of a rare trait in our kind, Quath'jutt'kkal'thon.*

Afraid of exposure, she answered, <My doubts are only temporary,
I assure you-->


	TIDES OF LIGHT
	107


*No. The deep secret behind our expansion from our home
system I shall now reveal to you. Long ago, we encountered a race
of small beings who explained the nature of the coming mech
onslaught. Our savants of that time saw that our own lazy nature
meant that we would fall before the mechs. So we blended genetic

material with the small ones, to amplify our aggressive side.*
<They must have been fierce. >

*They were. I do not know what physical form they took, but
they were both canny and persistent. In selecting these subtle
mental traits from their DNA--for we shared that fundamental
helical carrier--we necessarily incorporated other facets of them.
One such is a capacity to doubt, to question.*

<I got their fierceness, too,> Quath said with false bravado.

*Perhaps. But you are surely the rare form we call a Philosoph.
The conventional wisdom of the Synthesis, as handed down by the
Illuminates, is enough for most. Even those who do not believe--such
as Beq'qdahl function well within that context. But leader-

ship of our race depends on the Philosophs.*

<Leadership?>

*Eventually, yes--if you display the questing mind we need.*
<I... I...>

*This deep trait is what has plunged you into bleak despair
after Nimfur'thon's burning, It brings pain, but can also bring
wisdom. *

<A cursed inheritance,> Quath said bitterly.

On the Tukar'ramin's great wrinkled hide flashed a hormonal

code. *We will encrust you. A small addition for your new task.*
<The prospecting-->

*Is not spiritually fitting for you. We are lacking labor in the
Hive itself, due to the mining. Here I will sense you better, as
you work. There--you have the code? Apply to the Factotum and
be encrusted with your new tool.*

A gesture told Quath her audience was done. She skittered
away. Liberation from prospecting! And an encrustation--!

Next to promotion, which would mean an added pod, encrus-tation
was the highest tribute to a podder. Quath could preen in
the warrens, displaying her addition without baldly announcing it.
A plus, definitely. Yes. Her spirits rose.

Quath clattered past Dannfvver, hurrying to the nearest terminal.
She beeped the code number and awaited the news, her
servos humming. She could ponder the odd news of her nature


	108
	Gregory Benford

later, when there was time. After all, she was a Philosoph--whatever
that strange name implied.
The screen flickered fretted ivory. An image of the new tool
formed.
Gorge rose in Quath, an acrid blue that rasped her thorax.
Swimming before her was a stapling gun. A simple, brainless tool.
A simpleton encrustation so low as to be an insult.

Chapter EIGHT

The days passed with an ache in each hour.
Quath had some use of the stapling gun, occasionally tacking
machines and crates to the Hive walls in the company of a rabble
of robots she directed. The small Hive creatures squeaked and
jibbered in their stuttering minilanguage. Quath felt a stab of
embarrassment whenever an acquaintance happened by.
But in time this faded. After all, she was laboring, like all the
podia, and gradually she came to feel that this was her rightful
station. Facts had their own hardness, but one could sleep upon
them.
Quath did not mind the studied way some myriapodia now
ignored her conversation. There was always someone to talk to,
anyway. The myriapodia were distant and boring, in truth; they
cared only for their many mechanical jewelments, and how to
acquire yet one more.
Aeons ago the idea must have seemed a good one, Quath
thought: augment the podia as they aged, to use their experience
and shore up the stiffening organs. But now these encrusted
mammoths preened more than they worked. And the Quath they
snubbed, the quadpodder they passed without seeing as she labored
among brainless robots--that Quath knew that these bright
myriapodia would inevitably vanish forever: no matter how many
stringy muscles and clogged veins they replaced.
One night Quath passed a gang of miners and prospectors as
she returned alone to the communal webbing, down the inert gray
arterial corridors. One called out, <Come, pay respect!>
<To whom?> Quath asked, tired.
<Beq'qdahl! The Tukar'ramin has newly six-podded our friend]>
<For what?> Quath had heard no news.
<You jibe, wall-tacker. >
<No. For what?>
<She found a rich new seam of palazinia today.>

109


	110
	Gregory Benford


<I see. A lucky find. >

<More than luck] Craft] Spiracles that sniff out rarity. That we
go to celebrate!>

Beq'qdahl came into view. Three podia escorted her. The
fresh leg gleamed silver and Beq'qdahl bowed toward them, articulating
well, with color splashes at her throat that were almost
convincingly humble. But her eyes drifted randomly, fogged,
unattended by a saturated brain. <Come with us, Quath'jutt'-

kkal'thon. > Her voice was thick from excess of celebration.

<I am rather tired ....

<Don't you want to celebrate?> a quadder shouted. <Beq'qdahl

has been double-promoted, cicada. A rare honor!>

<I realize. >

<You're buzzed that Beq'qdahl is now a hexpodder, while you
remain with four. That's it, isn't it?>

<I am really not in the mood->

<Grub! Rotten cicada!> The wobbling quadder lurched toward
Quath, threatening.

Quath skittered aside. Another farted sourly in contempt, spewing
an acrid yellow cloud. Beq'qdahl pretended indifference, studying
the grainy walls.

Quath ducked down a side passage and away, to the moist

gossamer communal bedding, to sleep.

Sleep.

Yet sleep came fitfully, laced by hot lightning behind the eyes.
Quath tossed and clutched at her smooth bed weavings. At
times she awoke and then it was the long Dreamtime when they
journeyed from her homeworld at far below light-speed. They had
hung in swaying pearly sacs and voyaged through the notsleep,
bodies slowed, minds floating among fog-racked visions best forgotten
later ....

Just before dawn the distant sounds of Beq'qdahl's celebration
finally died away. Quath expected deep sleep at last. Instead she
awakened soon with tingling palps, flushed with a vision.

The Tukar'ramin, shrunken and old, lecturing. Not the enduring,
enfolding Tukar'ramin she knew, but a doddering old podia
who repeated the rote wisdom of the dead past. Despite the
technical magic that let the Tukar'ramin span the gulf between
minds, and heal, she was still an ancient podder, no more.

In the dream Tukar'ramin had described how the meehs would
fall before the podia and the cutting Cosmic Circle, vanquished by
life triumphant.


	TIDES OF LIGHT
	111


In the dream Quath had cried, You know our mission is empty!
and the Tukar'ramin, shocked, fell crashing into brass and ceramic
and gristle and withered bony parts. Thorax and antennae clattered
on the warren floor. She fell and fell and fell--endlessly,
authority squeezed to nothing beneath the crushing weight of
remorseless time.

Awakening, Quath saw for a glimmering moment that her
preoccupation with death held a clue. Somehow, this bore upon
all events here at Galactic Center. But how? The small traces of
Philosoph that laced thinly through her gave no clue.


Chapter NINE

Once more the Syphon sucked hard. Again the planet's husk
cracked and spat vast plumes of brown dust.
It was fortunate that this world had no major oceans, or a
different fraction of the crumpled crust would have been submerged
with each Syphon firing, impeding the mines. That fact
had helped select this world for the thermweaving. It overrode
the absence of moons, whose ripping apart would have provided
convenient building materials. What's more, there was a curious,
ancient orbital device at the equator, which the podia might find
useful later.
But now, word came of disturbances aloft. The podia used the
captured meeh orbital station as a shipping depot. But something
had now intruded into the depot, delaying transports. This news
was buried in the rush of Hive labor. Quath did not bother herself
with such large problems, though she still ached to work in orbit,
above the seethe of dust and gravity. She did her tasks and sought
solace in marveling at progress beyond her Hive.
Already the podia had captured a small fraction of this yellow
star's light. Their weaving proceeded apace in orbit, deploying
broad planes ribbed with photosensitive silicon. When finished,
the weave would be only a framework, of course, for later expeditions.
They would render the planets into light-sopping materials--a
tedious task--in preparation for harnessing the star's total
flux.
By the time that happened, Quath expected she would be long
dead, and the dream of Starswarmers touching between galaxies
in the Summation would be, for Quath, dust. The others did not
see this, or care. It was one thing to know in an abstract way that
one day you would die, and another to wake in the night and feel
your hearts thumping. To delve into your subtask brains and feel
the prickly oxygen entering bloodstreams, the slow sluggish purr
of tissues rebuilding, a hydraulic tug where titanium met earti-

112

	TIDES OF LIGHT
	113

lage, the dull orange burning of stored calories . . . and know they
will cease, you will plunge into blackness.
With repetition these somber moments lost some of their bite.
Quath began to see herself as a simple being, humble before the
brute facts of living. She labored with the ratlike robots, using her
massive stapler when great strength was needed, followed orders,
and kept to herself. From murmurs of transmissions in the Hive
corridors she overheard more talk of Beq'qdahl's successes. Beq'qdahl is rising, the myriapodia observed. As though Beq'qdahl
were a confection baking, puffing itself up, and they were indirectly
the cooks. To Quath these matters no longer stung.
Thus she was not disturbed, when work teams reorganized,
that Tukar'ramin ordered her to accompany Beq'qdahl as an equipment
carrier. Being a young Philosoph did not free one from the
rub of the world.

Ahead rumbled the bulky Beq'qdahl, legs serabbling on rocks.
Her erescents of phosphorus made a small splotch of day amid
the night. Quath lurched behind, jumping at each tremor of the
rock for fear that another shifting of the crust had begun. Overhead
hung the Cosmic Circle, its aura dull when not in use. The
sharp stars were eyes staring out of a swallowing abyss.
<Hurry. I want to probe this outcropping. > Beq'qdahl transmitted
only dipped, efficient messages.
Quath labored forward under her load of acoustic sensors. The
Tukar'ramin had given Beq'qdahl a complete analytical station, so
that tests could be made in the field. The components were bulky.
Quath also carried Beq'qdahl's extra boosting rockets, for escape
should magma spurt over the crumpled hills.
<Quick---a differential spectrometer. >
Quath supplied it. Dawn broke as the sun ripened behind
thinning clouds. Quath thought of Nimfur'thon and their gambols
on these lands, then sprinkled with green. A very long time ago.
From behind a tilted shelf of rock ambled a flock of animals. It
was surprising, Quath reflected, that they had survived the land's
heavings. The next round of Syphon firings would surely end life
on this world.
Something whined off Beq'qdahl's high turret.
<Do not jostle me. >
<I did not. >
<Isaid...>


	114
	Gregory Benford

The animals quickly spread among the shattered boulders.

Something thudded into Beq'qdahl's flank. A pod jerked in spasm.
<They are throwing pebbles?> Beq'qdahl asked.

<No. Those are weapons. > Quath felt a flare of hot pain.
Another shot sang off Beq'qdahl's bronzed turret.
<These are more than animals.>

<A reasonable hypothesis,> Quath answered mildly.

<But the Tukar'ramin said there were no significant Noughts!

No civilization. No artificed works. Only the mechs. >

<So she did.>

Two quick bursts caught Quath in the side. She drew up a
battered palp. A salty pus oozed forth.

<Evidently the inspection was cursory,> Quath said evenly.
<You miserable arachnida! These have weapons!>

<Yes, with considerable momentum density, as well. Simple,
but-->

Beq'qdahl's shrill cry pierced the air. Her fifth pod split ripely
and belched a foul smoke.

<I am injured! Injured! Help me boost.>
<A minor breaching. >
<Minor? I feel pain.>

<Your waste system has ruptured.>

<Give me the extra boosters!>

Quath abruptly pitched forward. Her rear bulkhead puckered
around two steaming holes.

<Off your knees! The boosters!>

< H-here. >

Beq'qdahl strapped on the blue cylinders. Sharp shots rang on
her carapace.

<When you are above these Noughts ...> Quath spoke
slowly, <sweep the backwash over the ground. The flames will-->

<Maneuver where they can shoot into my underbelly?> A
harsh laugh. <You are a grub. >

< Stay, then. We can perhaps ride over them and, and crush-->
<Flee, fool! This is not our task. Clearing of Noughts requires
real weapons. > Beq'qdahl's infrared antennae wobbled and sheared

away with a grating noise. <Agh!--what pain! I'm leaving!>

<I . . . I'm trapped here.>

<I will go ahead, summon aid. You... you boost as far as you
can and, and wait.> She finished hurriedly and made ready. Near
misses hummed in the air.

Quath felt a stabbing gouge in her third pod. The gray


	TIDES OF LIGHT
	115


animals--no, Noughts, she corrected herself--were nearer. They
were fanning out. Metal glinted in their small feelers.

When Quath glanced skyward again, Beq'qdahl was a yellow
dot arcing toward the distant Hive. Quath knew that even if she
had boosters, she would lose valuable moments overcoming her
own subminds. Their fear of flying was almost unmanageable.

Resigned, she turned to study the Noughts with no weapons to
repel them. Small pellets ate snick! ping!at her skin. She
hoisted her own boosters and locked them into sleeves, shrugging
off the small bites as the Noughts' shots nipped at her. Small, but
so many.

As she articulated a telescoping arm, something caught her
attention. Her stapler gleamed in the dawnlight.

The humble stapler which drove forked brackets into the Hive
rock. No weapon at all . . .

Quath started to run. And then stopped. The Noughts could
follow, after all. If she stood she would retain at least her dignity,
if not her life.

Quath turned and faced the enveloping tide of piping Noughts.
Something in her wanted this.

She raised the stapler and sighted along it with three eyes. A
Nought charged into her center of focus and she fired. The staple
split a rock, missing the Nought. She corrected. Fired. Another
miss.

Quath felt a strange soothing calm. Shots struck her palps,
fracturing one away. Steadily she calibrated and aimed. The stapler
jerked. A Nought crumpled and fell into a gully.

The next gray target bobbed and weaved. Quath compensated
and caught it on the third shot, splitting the thing in two. Beneath
the gray shell it oozed sap.

High, frantic calls piped from the Noughts. Many ducked
behind outcroppings. Quath quickly shot three.

Their weapons peppered her, stings nicking at her concentration.
She killed five more.

They crowded in now, skipping like mites from one shadowed
refuge to the next. Staples plowed through the soft, unarmored
Noughts.

Her side dimpled and a hard wave of pain lanced through her.
She lurched, gasping. Oil bubbled from two pods. Her remotely
actuated hydraulic cylinders did not respond. She was trapped
here.

She dashed sideways to elude a wedge o pounds them and a massed


	116
	Gregory Benford


volley slammed her into a rock face. Her lenses fogged. Oxygen
processors rasped. Fiery fingers pulled at her guts.

Here it is, Quath thought. I have met it. Blackness closed in.
Drifting . . .
Swimming . . .

Darkness came... slow... slow.

Yet time ticked on.

In her blurred sensate swamp Quath felt a brush of cool air,
like the plasma wind which stirs the banks of dust between suns.
Watery images floated in her eyes. She oxidized sugars with nitric
acid, splitting open her internal mucus pouches to hasten the mix.
She strained--

With a gathering rush her boosters fired, yellow columns
singing. A cold fierce joy burst in her.

She landed unsteadily. Noughts swarmed after her. She set
herself with a cool certainty and aimed. Fired.

Forked staples cut into the Noughts. Clanking, rumbling, surging,
she moved--and boosted again, firing as she flew.

The Noughts in their gray suits exploded when the staples
caught them. Guts spilled on crushed rock.

A pleasant fever swept over Quath as they fell under her hail
of staples, puny voices screaming, rasping for a last suck of air.

Quath pushed them back across the field. Their firing slowed,
ceased. They fled. She swiveled and searched out the few gray
dabs remaining. They cowered in their hiding holes, bleating in
fear, little better than animals.

Each became a small detail that Quath settled with the quick
sharp stutter of the stapling gun. Each ended with a little cry, as if
what awaited were a surprise.

When she sliced the last one through, Quath stood alone,
gasping, her mind fuzzed. She attached a hook and line to a
Nought body which was still in one piece and hauled it up for a
better view. In the absolute silence of the battlefield her driving
servo scratched, demanding oil. Her joints trembled with strain.
The Nought body turned on the hook. Quath plucked at the gray
skin. Filmy, it tore away.

The gray suit shucked off, much the way this world would soon
become a husk. The Nought slipped free.

At first Quath saw only the gangling appendages with their
awkward, splayed ends. Two for walking, two for manipulations.
The joints were slight pivots, surely not capable of withstanding
much stress.


	TIDES OF LIGHT
	117


Yet as Quath studied the creatures she saw how the wrinklings
and knottings of its skin told how the thing lived. Patches of
curdlings at the midjoints of the shorter pods, evidence of wear. A
funguslike growth above and below the eyes, to cup warmth about
the small brain. Another dark patch, lower, to shelter a tangle of
equipment.

Quath traced the fine pattern of fleece that wove about the
body, following what she could see were flow lines water would
make as the thing swam. A beautiful design. So this Nought was a
swimmer, yet it could walk, after a fashion.

She clamped the skull and turned the spinal juncture until a
click came. She sent a subsonic hum along the body. With care
she lifted the skull. The skeleton came free, sliding up out of the
meat.

To Quath this gesture brought into the air a fresh and wonderful
vision. The chalky bones were not crude and heavy. They
seemed delicately turned, fitting snugly together--thin where
waste would slow the beast, strong where torques and forces
found their axis.

The center held a finespun cage of calcium rods. 11ibs. They
blossomed into a brittle and precisely adjusted weave, a song of
intricate design and wonderful order that Quath could sense trilling
through the webbed intersections.

Yet this Nought-thing was a pest. It crawled on the ground and
probably never noticed the stars. It had mastered at best the
trifling resources of its pitiful little world. Its crude weapons were
barely better than the teeth and hooves of dumb animals.

Quath spun the skeleton, marveling at it. Inside her a chorus
swelled over her weak, doubting voices. She swept aside the bleak
landscape of small-minded logic, the fears which had ruled her.

Here at last was the truth made manifest. Her faith returned.
Ieason resonated here. A universe which spent such care on
loathsome, useless Noughts surely could not make the whole
drama pointless by discarding it all, by letting blackness swallow
everything, by letting Quath]utt'kkal'thon ever finally fail, fail and
die.


PART THREE -- A MATTER OF MOMENTUM

ONE

Killeen smacked his gloved palm against the alien bulkhead.
"Damn!"
Then he heard Jocelyn coming back and made himself take
long, calming breaths. It was never a good idea to let an officer,
even one as disciplined as Jocelyn, see the Cap'n in a pure,
frustrated fit of anger.
"Nothing," she reported. "Couldn't see a damn thing happening
anywhere in the ship."
Killeen nodded. He had been certain the craft was completely
dead to their commands, but they had to check every possibility.
There was precious little else they could do.
He remembered that during the assault on the station he had
regretted that, as Cap'n, he was no longer in the thick of things.
Well, now his wish had been granted ....
Their Flitter had been under way for over an hour. A steady
throb of motors gave a slight acceleration toward the aft deck. In
these skewed hexagonal compartments this was a particularly awkward
orientation, intended for some odd mech purpose.
Jocelyn pulled herself deftly over a tangle of U-cross-section
pipes that emerged from the floor and arced into the outer hull.
Killeen peered into the mass of wires and mysterious electronic
wedges that he had uncovered beneath a floor hatch. He called
up his AspectsArthur for the electronics craftsmanship of the
Arcology era, former Captain Ling for the starship lore of millennia
earlier, and even Grey, aloof, sophisticated, so remote as
to be nearly inaccessible. No matter who he summoned, none of
the ancient personalities offered anything useful. Ling came the
closest.

119


120


Gregory Benford


The external entity's means of controlling this craft may be
insidious ... note how none of your precautions prevented
Mantis from re-asserting itself, upon our arrival. Your mastery
over Argo was illusory.


"You mean we never stood a chance," Killeen said bitterly.
"Never did, never will."


Long ago, before my time, before Grey's, before even the
epoch of the great Chandeliers, it is said that our ancestors
once challenged the mechs. Higher entities were forced to
acknowledge our existence, rather than delegating our eftmina-tion
to minuscule mechanisms such as you knew on Snowglade.


It was difficult for Killeen to picture a being like Mantis as
"minuscule," though Mantis itself had said that this was so.
Killeen's mind could not encompass the heights Ling was implying--heights
once assaulted by humanity before the long, grinding fall.


As for your present problem, there is a simple solution. A
way to prevent the outside entity from controlling this
craft.


"How's that?"


By destroying its means of receiving instructions. Go outside
and wreck the antennae.


Killeen laughed so coarsely that Jocelyn looked up from her
useless labor under the floorboards. "Already thought 'bout that.
We can't get outside!"

Before Ling could respond he swept the irritating Aspect to
the back of his mind. He tried again to call Shibo on comm.

Reception had improved since the last try, though it still faded
in and out, washing her voice in soft static. To him it sounded
beautiful.

--How are you doing.2-- she asked, tense with concern.
"Survivin'. I miss you an' Toby. How is he?"

-Toby's fine. He's up here on the Bridge with me and Cermo.
We're trackin' you.-- There was a pause.-- You're still headed for
rendezvous with the approaching ship. It's hell just sitting here.
Can't budge Argo, come after you.--

"Did you try painting the hull with insulator? It might keep
out whatever's jammin' the controls."


TIDES OF LIGHT
	121


--Yeasay. No good. It's Mantis programs that've got us stuck
here, embedded too deep.-- Her level voice could not hide from
him her tight apprehension. --Looks like that method worked on
the other Flitters, though. They're under our control now. We'll
have 'em charged up soon.-

Implied, but unspoken, was the fact that none would be ready
in time to rescue Killeen and Jocelyn. Jocelyn reacted to this by
spitting on the cabin wall.

"All right," Killeen said. "Shibo, I want you to form up the

family. Issue provisions. Full field gear."

--For what?--"For
abandoning the station. Take the Family away."

--But Argo!--
"We'll have to abandon Argo too. Detach the farm domes. We
discussed that. They're self-sustaining. Drag 'em along. But get out
within twenty hours."

--But we can defend the station!-- It was Toby's voice, rent
with frustration, breaking in.

"Son," Killeen said. "Get off the command comm."

--I say we can take these damn mechs!--Before
Killeen could cut his son off, Shibo interjected agreement.

--Yeasay. We'll stay with Argo, fight off anything that comes.--Shibo's
voice was filled with fierce commitment. Her motivation
warmed him, but it frustrated Killeen that he could not make
her see.

Lieutenant Cermo's forceful voice joined in.

--Fight higher-level mechs? From a fixed position? Crazy!
Naysay!--

Shibo's reply sounded uncertain. --We'll sucker 'em in, jump

'era.-

--They'll expect that!-- Cermo spoke louder than necessary.

---These mechs're puny!-- Toby interrupted again. --We took
'em easy.--

Cermo's reply was bitter. --Those were just night watchmen.
Just wait'11 the Marauder class mechs show up. I tell you we can't
fight things at that level. Not from fixed positions. At least not
without help from something like the Mantis.--

--You Mantis-followers!-- Toby grated. --Mantis's mechs were
gonna meet us here, you thought. Where were they? They got
beat by something else before we ever arrived.--

--Exactly my point] Whatever beat Mantis's allies is gonna
come back here soon. It's already got th' Cap'n.--


	122
	Gregory Benford


"Cermo's right," Killeen told them, glad that his second lieutenant
was showing some sense. He was about to add more praise
when Cermo took a completely unexpected tangent.

Thanks, Cap'n. That's why I say we head right now for
broken ground. Head for territory where we know how to fight,

like in the old days, and where we can find allies.--

"You can't mean . . ."

--Yeasay! Head for the surfaee.--

"No! Take the Flitters outward! You can reach the fourth
planet. It's got ice, carbon. We got some Aspects who 'member

that kind of life. You can set up domes."

But Cermo cut in again.

--Argo brought us here for a reason, Cap'n. Some of us say
let's go down and find out what that reason is.--

"But those reasons may be obsolete! They probably are, if
Mantis's allies have lost. Anyway, what about the others in the
Family? Those who don't trust Mantis?"

That had always included the majority of Argo's crew. Killeen
had long counted on their support to overcome the mysticism, or
gullibility, of the faction willing to put its faith in the promises of a
meeh, even a "different" meeh as unusual as Mantis. Killeen was
confident peer pressure would bring Cermo around.

But Shibo's next words cut the deck from under him.

The majority say we should stand an' fight for the station,-she
said in a low, bitter voice he could barely make out. --But

the Cap'n has convinced me we can't. Given that, Cermo's right.--"No!
Take the Argo. Run]"

--If we take the Flitters maybe I can find you later.--

"Not much chance I'll be alive long. Somebody wants a look at

Jocelyn 'n me. Don't 'spect it's just friendly interest."
Cermo said, --Cap'n, we vote for goin' down.--"And
I say you don't."

With less heat now Cermo sent, --The Mantis . . .-"We're
masters of our own lives, dammit!" Killeen shouted.
--The Mantis had somethin' in mind,-- Cermo said stolidly.

"So what? Think it planned that cosmic string? Shibo! What's
it doing?"

In reply she sent a simulation picture that fluttered in his left

eye.

The revolving hoop shaded the entire planet. From the small
opening along the axis dark peneft-thin strands shot upward. Both
poles vented streams of matter. Yellow metal-lava struck vacuum


	TIDES OF LIGHT
	123


and exploded into banks of fog. From the vapor came long, thin
threads.

"Looks like buildin' somethin'," Killeen said.
--Gutting the planet while they do it,-- Shibo agreed.

Killeen said sharply, "You'll do as I order. Shibo, you sounded
the gathering call yet?"

Shibo replied reluctantly, --Yeasay.--

"Good. Now--"

--I got Flitters ready, too. They're set up for easy destination
programming. Files on the Argo showed me how. I've got them
set for planet approach.--

Killeen saw bitterly that she had thought this through thoroughly.
She could probably bring it off, too. Shibo was a wonder at
ferreting out mechmind ways. "Naysay! Something awful's going
on here. Get away!"

--Sorry, lover. You're outvoted.-- Shibo gave the words a lilt

but he could feel her tension.

"As Cap'n I--"

--If you want legalisms, try this,--Shibo cut in sternly.
--You've been shanghaied off. As acting officers we're expressing
the Family's decision.--

"Naysay! You can't--"

--Listen!-- Her voice suddenly flared with genuine anger. He
could imagine her suddenly widened eyes, her clenched teeth.
Emotions seldom broke her calm surface, but the effect was spectacular,
like an unleashed force of nature. --We'll try saving you.

But we're holding with our dream.--

"Shibo, I want--"

--Lover, you know I can't just sit here and do nothing.--Killeen
made himself pause. His frustration should be directed
against whatever had seized this ship, not against this most precious
of all women. "All... all right. No way I can stop you, is there?"

Cermo answered with surprising warmth, --Naysay. None.--"Where'11
you go?"

A pause. He imagined that she was holding herself in check
too. The thin strand connecting them seemed to sing with unspo-

ken thoughts. --You... 'member that signal from New Bishop?-
"Yeasay. Had human indices, you said."

--I got a better fix on it. Voices. Near the equator. We'll try
for that.--

"Well..."


	124
	Gregory Benford

--There're people down there. That convinced a lot of us. If
we can't defend Argo, we'll go down and join our kin.-

It made sense. Killeen reluctantly admitted that Shibo and
Cermo had logic and human fellowship on their side.

"The string, though!" he shouted, pounding the console. "How
can you get past it?"

--It whirls round for a day or so, then stops,-- Shibo said.

--We'll spread out from the station. When the string stops, we'll hit
the atmosphere.--"Too
risky."

--Lover . · .-For
a long moment they said nothing. The purr of static
seemed almost like a background chorus to poignant, unspeakable
thoughts.

"When . ·· when'11 you leave?"

--Soon. We're nearly ready. I . . we'll . . . try.. · pick you
up ... you ... hide from whatever's in that ship ... if we
can . ·· get in close . . · otherwise ·· .-

Her voice faded in and out. Killeen listened intently for some
last contact with her. Finally he switched off the static and realized
he had been holding his breath.

Jocelyn looked at him expectantly. Killeen had no ideas and
did not want to show it. He clamped down his jaw muscles,
knowing this gave him a stern look, but this time he valued it
more because it compressed his helpless frustration.

"They want to keep us in here till . · "Jocelyn plainly could
not think of a way to finish.

"Yeasay. Till they can flush us out, step on us.

"Haulin' us out this far, maybe they just want get some idea

'bout what we are, 'fore they go into the station."

"Seems reasonable. Mechs're careful."

"Even dead, we'll give 'em info," Jocelyn said flatly.
He saw her meaning. "Yeasay."
"We better get out 'fore we arrive."

Anger brimmed fresh in him. He needed to think but the
blind rage seethed nearly beyond control. His hands ached to
smash and tear.

At that moment he saw the glimmer of an idea. Evolution's
mute legacy of hormones had made him get angry, and maybe
that was the right thing after all. Use his rage, yes.

"Let's have some fun," he said with a thin smile.

"Huh?"


	TIDES OF LIGHT
	125


"This ship's got some onboard mind, even if we can't reach it.
Let's give it a problem. A big problem."

Killeen picked up a metal rod he had wrenched free from a
mech loading mechanism. With a spurt of joy he brought it down
on the U-shaped pipes. One, two, three blows--and a pipe dented.
Fractured. Split to let hiss forth a green gas.

"Seal up!" Jocelyn cried with alarm. They both twist-locked
their helmets as the gas filled the ship with a billowing emerald
fog.

Distant warnings wailed, keening in his sensorium. Killeen
waved Jocelyn to follow and moved as quickly as he could through
the snaking tunnels of the Flitter. There had been a small side
lock that they could not open, but now, if they confused the ship's
internal systems enough . . .

The lock was a simple exit chute with a large dimpled cap.
They had spent a lot of time trying to lever it open, and now
Killeen simply slammed his metal rod into the thing. He chipped
its finish and broke off the side flanges. Jocelyn had caught his
meaning, too, and had found a shaft of heavy composite brass. She
fiailed at the lock with relish, grinning.

After the first rush of rage Killeen reflected that this at least
cleared their heads. It burned up oxygen, but he didn't have
much hope of using his full reserve anyway. He knew he had
blundered badly and was going to pay for it.

More alarms hooted through his sensorium, electromagnetic
spikes of mech dismay. Killeen chopped down on power cables.
Sparks jumped. He was wearing his rubber gloves to avoid the
usual shocktraps but the surge still blinded him--breaking down
the air, forking orange fingers into the deck. The green gas was
thickening. Killeen smashed a panel of controls, denting the side
and ripping wires.

And the lock popped open. Killeen stared at it. Brilliant stars
beckoned. He had only an instant before the whoosh of escaping
air drew him headfirst toward the open lock.

He windmilled his arms in the storm. This made him strike
the yawning mouth sidewise, so it could not swallow him. Jocelyn
slammed into his legs. He wrenched sidewise. That gave her a
shove toward the floor, where she could grab at the base.

But securing her cost him his precarious hold on the lip of the
lock. The rising gale's shriek clutched at him. He tried to sit up. A
giant hand pushed him heavily back. Small mouths sucked at his
arms, legs, head--


	126
	Gregory Benford

Something struck him solidly in the neck and abruptly he was
in the lock, battering against the side in a green-tinged darkness--

--and was out, free, whirling away from the shining skin of the
Flitter.

Tumbling. Spinning.

He vectored hard to correct his plunge. A jumble of impressions
began to make sense.

He hung on the dayside of New Bishop, far from the station.
He was near a pole. Far below the ruddy twilight stretched shadows
of mountains across beaten gray plains. Toward the equator
green life still dung in valleys and plains, where forests thickened.

All this lay behind the incandescent golden blur of the cosmic
string. It spun with endless energy. One edge of it arrowed
straight down toward the pole. The other side bulged out far
beyond the planer's equator.

The hoop spun faster than the eye could follow. A hovering
tapestry spread over the entire world. The polar axis was dear
now. Killeen could see no dark jet of metal spewing up. But
glinting craft lingered still.

Now he was going to get a dose look. He was nearly over the
pole. Far away, nearly over the soft curve of the world, arced vast
gray warrens. The fabricated fruit of the recently ejected core
metal, he guessed.

This he took in with the barest glance, unable to react--because
something came looming into his view, swelling with the
speed of its approach.

The ship was far larger than the meeh Flitter, which now floated
like a helpless insect beside a predatory bird as the craft slowed
and stopped. The comparison came to Killeen because of a certain
tantalizing, evocative sweep of the larger ship's lines. It had
flared wings made of intricate intersecting pentagons, as though
spun out from a single thread. Its forward hull bulged like a gouty
throat. Blackened thrusters at its rear puekered wide. His Arthur
Aspect remarked serenely:

While the Flitter expresses mech rigidities, this huge craft
seems sculpted to express underlying body symmetries. Aspect
Grey tells me this is a characteristic of organic intelligence,
not mech. Still, I fear these are not the familiar
bilateral forms made by humans.


"Joeelyn! There's something out here. Hide!"

Faintly she sent in answer, --Yeasay. Flitter's nearly stopped
anyway.--


	TIDES OF LIGHT
	127


The ships now hung together. Killeen wondered if this had
been their intended destination. If so, perhaps all their mad
raging had only succeeded in getting him free a few moments
early, as the Flitter was allowed to void its irritant.

He jetted around the Flitter, calculating that the larger ship
might miss him in the clutter of debris that had spewed from the
lock. If he could somehow stay free, he might find out what manner
of being flew the strangely shaped ship.

Speculation ceased. A form rushed forth from a darkened oval
hole in the craft's side, moving far swifter than a human could. It
headed for him.

Killeen sped away. There was nowhere to go but he was
damned if he would wait to be caught. His turn brought into view
the pole again, and the golden glow of the spinning hoop below.
The shimmering covered all of New Bishop except for the small
open cylinder at the pole.

Killeen tried to angle away from the onrushing form and gain
the small shelter of the Flitter. A glance behind him showed that
the thing was closing fast. He veered.

At each darting turn it came closer, following him with almost
contemptuous ease. It loomed so near now that Killeen could see
bossed metal studded with protuberances. Between riveted coppery
sections was a rough, crusted stuff that seemed to flex and
work with effort.

He realized abruptly that the thing was alive. Muscles rippled
through it. Six sheathed legs curled beneath, ending in huge
claws.

And the head--Killeen saw eyes, more than he could count,
moving independently on stalks. Beside them microwave dishes
rotated. It had telescoping arms socketed in shiny steel. They
ended in grappling arrays of opposing pads.

The thing was at least twenty times the size of a human. A
bulging throat throbbed beneath stiff-crusted graygreen skin. Its
rear quarters were swollen as though thruster tubes lodged there.
Yet they were also banded with alternating yellow and brown
rings, like the markings of a living creature.

Killeen guessed that this was what had been near the mainmind
of the station. But that one had been much smaller. This was another
order of being. It united the forms of both meeh and life.

This was all he could think before gaping pads clasped him in a
rough but sure embrace.
The thing brought him up toward its moving eye array. It


	128
	Gregory Benford


studied him for a long moment. Killeen was so rapt upon the
orange ovals that only after a moment did he notice the steady tug
of acceleration.

The thing was hurtling him forward. Not back to its ship, but
toward the pole. It tossed him from one array of pads to another,
letting him tumble for seconds in space before snagging him
again.


Like a cat playing with a mouse,


his Arthur Aspect said mournfully.
"What's . . . a cat?"


An ancient animal, revered for its wisdom. Grey told me of
it.


Killeen's mind whirled, empty of terror or rage.

He felt only a distant, painful remorse at all he was about to
leave behind Toby's laughter, Shibo's silky love, Cermo's broad
unthinking grin, the whole warm clasp of the Family he had
failed, and would now die for in a meaningless sacrifice to something
beyond human experience.

He tried to wrench away from the coarse black pads. They
seemed to be everywhere. A brutal weight mashed him down. A
long, agonizing time passed as he struggled to breathe.

He wondered abstractly how the thing would kill him. A
crushing grasp, or legs pulled off, or electrocution . . .

In sudden rage he tried to kick against the pads. He got a knee
up into them and pushed, struck sidewise with his arms--

--and was free. Impossibly, he glided away at high speed from
the long, pocked form of worked steel and wrinkled brown flesh.
It did not follow,

He spun to get his bearings and saw nothing but a hard glow.
He was close to the hoop. No, not merely close--it surrounded him.

Killeen looked behind him. Above the fast-shrinking alien
hung at the end of a glowing tube that stretched, stretched and
narrowed around him as Killeen watched.

He was speeding down the throat of the pipe made by the
whirring hoop. Shimmering radiance closed in.

He righted himself and fired his jets. The alien had given him
a high velocity straight down into the hoop-tube. If he could
correct for it in time--


TIDES OF LIGHT


129


But the brilliant walls drew nearer.

He applied maximum thrust to stop himself, even though that
meant his fuel would burn less efficiently. His in-suit thrusters
were small, weak, intended only for maneuvers in free-fall.

He plunged straight down. The alien had so carefully applied
accelerations that Killeen did not veer sidewise against the hoop
walls. He was falling precisely toward the pole of New Bishop.
Through the shimmering translucent walls he could see a dim
outline of the planet, as ghostly as a lost dream.

His thrusters chugged, ran smoothly for a moment, then coughed
and died. He fell in sudden eerie silence,

He had been simpleminded, thinking that the alien anthology
of flesh and steel would kill him in some obvious way. Instead,
from some great and twisted motive, it had given him this strange
trajectory into the mouth of a huge engine of destruction.

At any moment, he supposed, the tube would vent more
liquid metal outward. In an instant he would vanish into smoke.

Vainly he tried his sensorium. No human tracers beckoned.
He grimaced, his breath coming rapidly in the sweat-fogged
helmet.

The shimmering walls drew closer. He almost felt that he
could touch them, but kept his arms at his sides. He fell feet first,
watching a small yellow dot between his boots slowly grow. His
Grey Aspect said distantly:


This is . . . wondrous work... such as I... never studied

. . · comparable to the constructions . . . in ancient times

·· . of mechs themselves...


His Arthur Aspect remarked:


We are inside the bore of the tube that stretches out along
the polar axis. Let us hope the entire tube has been emptied
by the alien mining operations· It appears we do have a
quite exact trajectory. The alien sent us falling straight along
New Bishop's spin axis. We may well fall all the way through
the planet.


Killeen tried to think. "How long will that take?"


Let me calculate for a moment. Yes, I retained the data on
New Bishop which Shibo announced... which yields... I
am performing the dynamical integral analytically . . .


	130
	Gregory Benford

Across Killeen's field of view appeared:


	time =
	R
	4---G p


Time to pass through to the other side of the planet is 36.42
minutes. I would advise you to start a running clock.

Killeen called up a time-beeper in his right eye, set it to zero, and
watched the spool of yellow digits run. He could make no sense of
them, and in his life had never needed more than a rough estimate
of minutes elapsed--and then only when timing the beginning
of an assault. Let the Arthur Aspect read it. Time was of no
importance when the outcome was so barrenly clear.


IWO


Quath'jutt'kkal'thon surged with pride.

Powerful acceleration pressed her into the rough webbing. She
sang to herself of the adventure to come, the first fruit of her new
status in the Hive.

Beq'qdahl called, <See the thermweb!>

Quath could have tapped into the general ship's electro-aura,
but she chose to lean forward and watch through the optical port.
They were well above the smooth blue curve of this world. The
Cosmic Circle hung still in the distance, gray and serene. Soon it
would begin winding up again. More core metal would be needed
for . . . She searched the starry dark. There.t

The thermweb was a slate-dark lattice, hard to see. Some
strands of it were nearly complete, knotted at the intersections by
pearly bonding dollops larger than mountains. The total span
showed a distinct arc and its far edge lay beyond the horizon.

Quath narrowed her vision. She could see podia working on
the immense girders and vaults--forming, shaping, cutting, polishing.
Soon the thermweave would be ready to harness the
outpouring solar energy of the nearby star, and the mission of
Quath's race could carry on with its inexorable momentum.

But first there were minor details to clear up. Quath and
Beq'qdahl had been sent up in this shuttlecraft to take care of a
nuisance which had infested the former mech orbital station.

For Quath this was a great honor. She had distinguished
herself in the battle with the Noughts. The Hive's supreme arbiter,
the Tukar'ramin, had witnessed Beq'qdahl's cowardly flight.
So Quath had been decorated with gaudy new additions to her
body parts, including two fresh legs. In the corridors she was
spoken of as Quath-the-Terror and She-Who-Fights.

And now this: a mission to squash an infestation in orbit.
Honor! Opportunity!

A vicious pest had occupied the station, killing a minor func-


131


	132
	Gregory Benford

tionary. The orbital laborers were too busy to tend to the task, and
so had delegated it to the lower-rank ground podia. Still, this was
surely more than Quath had dreamed she could achieve, a strand
far higher in the social web.

<I have extracted the meeh shuttle ship and am speeding it to
rendezvous with us,> Beq'qdahl said.

Quath gibed at her, <I favor striking directly at the station. >

<No doubt you would. Barge in without thinking, without
knowing what you face. >

<Courage shall carry us through!>

<I prefer assessing risk. > Beq'qdahl was still sensitive about
the embarrassing encounter with the Noughts.

Quath said slyly, <Reports from our meeh slaves imply these
are mere Noughts infesting the station. Surely caution is unnecessary
when stamping out mere-->

<I shall decide what is necessary here. >

Quath saw Beq'qdahl's design. She wished to recoup her repute.
A quick engagement could indeed restore her good name.
Perhaps the Tukar'ramin had allowed the two of them alone to
come on this mission for just that reason.

Quath fretted. She had assumed that she was being honored
here. Now she saw that perhaps the Tukar'ramin was simply
guarding Beq'qdahl's stature, with Quath along as a safeguard. In
ease Beq'qdahl bungled matters, Quath-the-Nought-Slayer could
save the day.

<Suffice to say that I wish to take a sure and steady course,>
Beq'qdahl said.

Quath hesitated. After all, action in orbit was a great privilege.
She scintillated her pore hairs to show agreement. <What can I
do?>

<We shall soon meet the meeh ship. I commanded it to
withdraw from the station and meet us here, for inspection. Internal
signals show it contains some Noughts. We shall take their
measure. >

<Ah!> The Tukar'ramin placed a high value on stamping out
the Noughts, ever since they had damaged the magnetic flux
stations. The very death of Nimfur'thon might have arisen from
Nought vandalism, causing the Syphon to snarl. Quath relished
the opportunity to squash more of these dwarf enemies.

They swooped around the bowl of the planet. Below them the
Cosmic Circle tilted on the far horizon and began with gravid


	TIDES OF LIGHT
	133


graee to spin again. Its length shimmered brilliantly as it converted
a small fraction of the mass at the core into self-energy.

Quath watched this with humble awe. She saw they would
intersect the shuttle ship near the pole, where they could well
witness the working of the Cosmic Circle.

She hoped to approach it, sense its eyelie power. There was
a legend among the podia that the Circle, their most potent tool
and weapon, radiated an enhancing aura. Podia who ventured near
were ensured of longer life.

Quath thought this was probably worthless legend, but she
was not absolutely sure. Why not test it? After all, she was a
Philosoph.

Her conversion to an inner certainty of her own immortality,
which had come as a blinding insight on the battlefield, had now
echoed down through her life. She no longer questioned the
ultimate rightness and central position of the podia, and of her
place in the scheme of the galaxy. The calming reassurance of her
conversion was an ever-present joy.

Yet, oddly, when she had related this to the Tukar'ramin,
that great entity had seemed unmoved.

Quath watched as they approached the shuttle ship. She tensed
with excitement as Beq'qdahl commanded, <You may inspect the
Noughts. I am releasing them now. Meanwhile, I shall ready our
assault guns. >

Quath elanked and rasped as she made her way through the
lock. She was fully charged in all reservoirs and capacitances. Her
body prickled with the desire to vanquish.

She launched herself through the lock into the cool embrace of
high vacuum. Pleasurable waves swept across her tough self-skin,
the original organic hide she had been born with. She had thought
of covering it with body armor or some useful appliance, but the
charm of true flesh outweighed utility. She was nostalgic for her
earlier, purely organic self. To erase all dependence on flesh
would be too great a breaching with her past, too soon. Time
enough for that later, when she had dimbed on up to greater
strands in life. Only the Illuminates, it was said, were totally
augmented. Those vast, wise beings had attained the ultimate
synthesis of flesh and mechanism.

The shuttle ship hung nearby. Quath saw immediately that a
cloud of junk spun lazily away from the small aft lock. Amid the
twirling stuff was a silvery Nought.

She shot toward it. Yes, it was the same boring bipedal sort


	132
	Gregory Benford

tionary. The orbital laborers were too busy to tend to the task, and
so had delegated it to the lower-rank ground podia. Still, this was
surely more than Quath had dreamed she could achieve, a strand
far higher in the social web.

<I have extracted the mech shuttle ship and am speeding it to
rendezvous with us,> Beq'qdahl said.

Quath gibed at her, <I favor striking directly at the station. >

<No doubt you would. Barge in without thinking, without
knowing what you face. >

<Courage shall carry us through!>

<I prefer assessing risk. > Beq'qdahl was still sensitive about
the embarrassing encounter with the Noughts.

Quath said slyly, <Beports from our mech slaves imply these
are mere Noughts infesting the station. Surely caution is unnecessary
when stamping out mere--->

<I shall decide what is necessary here. >

Quath saw Beq'qdahl's design. She wished to recoup her repute.
A quick engagement could indeed restore her good name.
Perhaps the Tukar'ramin had allowed the two of them alone to
come on this mission for just that reason.

Quath fretted. She had assumed that she was being honored
here. Now she saw that perhaps the Tukar'ramin was simply
guarding Beq'qdahl's stature, with Quath along as a safeguard. In
case Beq'qdahl bungled matters, Quath-the-Nought-Slayer could
save the day.

<Suffice to say that I wish to take a sure and steady course,>
Beq'qdahl said.

Quath hesitated. After all, action in orbit was a great privilege.
She scintillated her pore hairs to show agreement. <What can I
do?>

<We shall soon meet the mech ship. I commanded it to
withdraw from the station and meet us here, for inspection. Internal
signals show it contains some Noughts. We shall take their
measure. >

<Ah!> The Tukar'ramin placed a high value on stamping out
the Noughts, ever since they had damaged the magnetic flux
stations. The very death of Nimfur'thon might have arisen from
Nought vandalism, causing the Syphon to snarl. Quath relished
the opportunity to squash more of these dwarf enemies.

They swooped around the bowl of the planet. Below them the
Cosmic Circle tilted on the far horizon and began with gravid


	TIDES OF LIGHT
	133


grace to spin again. Its length shimmered brilliantly as it converted
a small fraction of the mass at the core into self-energy.

Quath watched this with humble awe. She saw they would
intersect the shuttle ship near the pole, where they could well
witness the working of the Cosmic Circle.

She hoped to approach it, sense its cyclic power. There was
a legend among the podia that the Circle, their most potent tool
and weapon, radiated an enhancing aura. Podia who ventured near
were ensured of longer life.

Quath thought this was probably worthless legend, but she
was not absolutely sure. Why not test it? After all, she was a
Philosoph.

Her conversion to an inner certainty of her own immortality,
which had come as a blinding insight on the battlefield, had now
echoed down through her life. She no longer questioned the
ultimate rightness and central position of the podia, and of her
place in the scheme of the galaxy. The calming reassurance of her
conversion was an ever-present joy.

Yet, oddly, when she had related this to the Tukar'ramin,
that great entity had seemed unmoved.

Quath watched as they approached the shuttle ship. She tensed
with excitement as Beq'qdahl commanded, <You may inspect the
Noughts. I am releasing them now. Meanwhile, I shall ready our
assault guns. >

Quath clanked and rasped as she made her way through the
lock. She was fully charged in all reservoirs and capacitances. Her
body prickled with the desire to vanquish.

She launched herself through the lock into the cool embrace of
high vacuum. Pleasurable waves swept across her tough self-skin,
the original organic hide she had been born with. She had thought
of covering it with body armor or some useful appliance, but the
charm of true flesh outweighed utility. She was nostalgic for her
earlier, purely organic self. To erase all dependence on flesh
would be too great a breaching with her past, too soon. Time
enough for that later, when she had climbed on up to greater
strands in life. Only the Illuminates, it was said, were totally
augmented. Those vast, wise beings had attained the ultimate
synthesis of flesh and mechanism.

The shuttle ship hung nearby. Quath saw immediately that a
cloud of junk spun lazily away from the small aft lock. Amid the
twirling stuff was a silvery Nought.

She shot toward it. Yes, it was the same boring bipedal sort


	134
	Gregory Benford

that she had slaughtered in plenty on the battlefield. The mirror
finish to its skin spoke of a high-quality technology, an insulating
texture. Perhaps the Nought had stolen this material from the
podia's stores in the orbiting station. This suspicion flared hotly in
Quath. She sped to intersect the pitifully slow passage of the
Nought.

She caught it easily. Its struggles were comically weak.
<What form is it?> Beq'qdahl asked.
<One you ran from, remember?>

<Do not aggravate me, I warn you. Report!>

<Negligible tech evident, though its suit is of high level. It is
moving its limbs as though it walks on two, works with the others.
No augmentation that I can see. Probably a raw animal form,
really. >

<They should be simple to eradicate. >

<Yes. Shall I peel back the suit, to check it in detail?>

<I do not like to witness the disgusting raw form of animals,
Quath. > Beq'qdahl sniffed. <That is beneath my dignity. >

<Oh, most sorry. > Quath suppressed her jangling mirth.
<Finish up, then. Enough inspection.>

<Could we not watch the Syphon, Beq'qdahl? See, it brims
nearby. >

<I perceive no purpose->

Quath felt an idea percolate up from one of her subminds.
<Wait! This Nought has caused us trouble, yes?>

Beq'qdahl's voice betrayed interest. <What of

<Noble Beq'qdahl, I have in mind an amusing game ....


THREE


Killeen fell.

It had taken him years to truly get used to the sensation of
free-fall, and that had been outside Argo, in the silent enormity of
open space. It had been possible then to convince his reflexes that
he was in some sense flying, airy and buoyant, oblivious to gravity's
cruel laws.

But here . . . Here he plunged downward between mottled
glowing walls that rushed past with dizzying speed. He felt the
silvery rim of New Bishop thrusting up to meet him as the planet
flattened into a plain. Crinkled mountains grew, detail getting
finer with every moment. Through the gauzy sheen of the whirling
cosmic string he watched the planet grow.

The polar region still held a few rivulets of white, snow from
what must have once been an icecap. The land had a naked look,
pale and barren, as though recently exposed. It stretched away,
filling half his sky beyond the glowing translucent walls of the
hoop-tube. The ravaged land was rutted by fresh rivers that
poured over jagged scarps. He could see rough roads cut by
treads, broad tracks of churned mud.

The ground hurtled up, a vast hand swatting at him, and he

flinched automatically. He plunged toward a broad hillside----braced
himself for the impact----and
felt nothing.

Instantly he shot through into a dim golden world, alone.
Glowing walls gave some light but he could see nothing beyond
them. Far below, between his boots, was a glaring yellow point.
Arthur's voice came to him:


I have conferred with Grey. She unfortunately knows nothing
more of this than I. We are left with only educated
guesses. This tube is indeed empty, free even of air. We are
inside the planet now. I estimate our speed at 934 meters
per second.


135


	136
	Gregory Benford


Dark mottled shapes soared up toward him and flashed sound-lessly
past in the walls. "Headed for what?"


If the alien cyborgs have constructed this miraculous planet-coring
device with the precision I would expect of them, I
predict we shall plunge entirely through the center and out
to the other side.


"What's a cyborg?" Killeen asked, to focus his mind. His Grey
Aspect answered faintly:


Half-organic being . . . half-machine . . . I could not ascertain
. . . exact proportions . . . from such hasty observation
· . . historical records . . . spoke of such a race . . . in very
early days... the Great Times...


"Skip that! How can I get out?"
Arthur replied crisply:


We cannot. By thrusting the cosmic string to very near the
planetary axis, the cyborgs ensured that there is no spin
along this tube. Matter coming up from the core--or down
from outside, as we are--will suffer no slow drift, and so
should not strike the walls. In addition, uniquely to this
choice they have adroitly made, there is no Coriolis force
which would deflect us.


Killeen could not follow the jargon but he understood it was all
bad news.

Despite the glowing walls the light around him was dimming.
He fought down rising panic. Part of his fear came from the
simple fact that he was falling at greater and greater speeds, and
sheer animal terror threatened to engulf him. Against this consuming
fear he fought like a man hammering at a dark wave which
loomed ever higher. His breath caught. He forced his throat to
open, his lungs to stop their spasmodic heaving.

Grainy, blurred shapes flashed past. These were features in
the rock, illuminated by the thin barrier of the rotating hoop.

The yellow glare below had swollen to a brilliant disk. He
could feel now through his sensorlure a bone-deep bass whuum-whuum-whuum-whuum
of the spinning magnetic fields.

"Maybe . . . maybe I can reach the walls. Is there any way I
can slow down?"

Killeen felt Arthur's sharp, peeling laugh. A circle appeared in


TIDES OF LIGHT


137


his left eye. It billowed into a sphere--the planet--with a red line
thrust along the axis of revolution. A small blue dot moved inward
near the top of the axis, just below the surface.


!


I

I

I

I


We have now acquired a speed of 1,468 meters per second.
The hoop material, remember, is extremely dense---many
millions of tons per kilometer. All packed into a thread
which hardly spans an atom's width, whirling at immense
speed. If you were to strike that matter at our present
speed, your hand would vaporize.


Killeen's breath came in fast, jerky pants. "Suppose they get
some core metal in here, comin' out, and we meet it."


I don't suppose I have to analyze that possibility for you.


"No, guess not."

Killeen east about for some idea, some fleeting hope. The walls
were nearly dark now, the radiance of the hoop somehow absorbed
by the rock beyond. Smoldering orange-brown wedges


	138
	Gregory Benford


shot past--lava trapped in underground vaults, great oceans of
livid, scorching rock.


I would suppose that the hoop-tube is left to stand empty at
times. Perhaps the cyborgs are now working on some minor
repairs. Or perhaps they simply pause to let the orbited
teams which are fashioning the first batch of core
metal do their work. In any case, assuming the cyborg
above did not simply throw us in to see us boiled away by a
gusher of iron, there is another fate.


Killeen tried to calm himself and focus on Arthur's words. The
walls seemed closer as he fell, the tube narrowing before him. He
pulled himself rigid and straight, arms at his sides, feet down
toward the yellow disk below that grew steadily. He blinked back
sweat and tried to see better.


I believe we have passed through the crust and are now
accelerating through the mantle. Note that the occasional
lava lakes are getting larger and more numerous. Temperature
increases here by about 10 degrees centigrade every
kilometer we fall. This will continue until the temperature
exceeds the melting point of simple silicate rocks. Then--drawing
on studies of similar planets--we will enter an
increasingly dense and hot core. At this point the rocks will
be fluid and at about 2,800 degrees centigrade.


"Howcome rock doesn't fill up this tube?"


The hoop pressure, which is truly immense. Grey calculates--


"And the heat? The hoop stops that?" Killeen asked, seeking
reassurance, though he already suspected the answer.


Heat is infrared electromagnetic radiation. The hoop is transparent
to it. All light passes through it--which is why we
see now the dark rock beyond. Soon, though, the silicates
will begin to glow with their heat of compression.


"What'11 we do?"


The heat radiation exerts a pressure. But this is symmetric,
of course, acting equally in all directions. So it cannot push
us toward one wall in preference to another. But it will
cook us quite thoroughly.


TIDES OF LIGHT


139


"How... how long?"


Passage through the core... about 9.87 minutes.


"My suit--it'll silver up for me."


True, it already has. And I calculate we might survive one
entire passage if we seal up completely, close your helmet
visor, damp all inputs. Perhaps the cyborg understood that;
it may know a good deal about our technology. Yes, yes...
I am beginning to see its devilish logic.


Killeen shut down his suit inputs. He left only a slight lightpipe
for optical images. His suit skin reflected the blur of thickening
light around him with a mirror finish. The walls rushing past
were turning ruddy, sullen. "Where are we?"


We must be approaching the boundary at which iron melts.
This reddening probably signals the transition from the mantle
to the outer core. We can expect some varying magnetic
fields now, since this is the region--so theory says--where
the planet's field is born. Large currents of molten metal
eddy about, carrying electrical currents, like great wires in a
generator station. New Bishop's spin serves to wrap these
around, creating current vortexes, which in turn stir up
magnetic whorls.


"Damn, it's getting hot already."


External temperature is 2,785 degrees centigrade.


Killeen clicked down his visor. He fell in complete blackness.
He wondered if he could stand the heat in utter isolation, plunging
faster, faster, ever faster ....

Again he struggled to slow his breathing. If he was to live
through even the next few minutes he would have to think clearly.
The dark might help that as long as he could keep his natural
reactions from running away.


Luckily, the added speed imparted by the cyborg will take
us through that much faster. I register external temperature
now at well over 3,000 centigrade. Here--one of the suit's
lightpipes will give us a faint image, which is all we need in
such a place.


	140
	Gregory Benford


"Damnall, think!"


I am. I simply do not see any way out of our dilemma.


"There's gotta be some way--"


The existence of a well-defined problem does not imply the
existence of a solution.


"Damn youl"

Years before, Killeen had suppressed his Aspects when they
threatened to overwhelm him. Now he felt the risk in that. Arthur
was a disconnected intelligence, serving as a mere consultant
mind. Without nature's primitive surges of alarm, like adrenaline,
Arthur remained aloof. Still, his coolness kept the less-used Aspects
and Faces from intruding on Killeen with their panics.

"Look, we get through this, we'll be back outside, yeasay?"


Yes. But that is the devilish nature of this cyborg's trick. We
are participating in an ancient schoolboy's homework
problem--a shaft through the planet, with us as the harmonically
oscillating test mass.


"What..."

Killeen suddenly saw what Arthur meant. He watched as in his
eye the blue dot shot through the core and on, out through the
other side of the red tube. It rose toward the surface, its velocity
dwindling in gravity's grip, then broke free above the surface, still
slowing. After hesitating at the peak it began falling again, to
execute another long plunge through the heart of the spitted planet.


We can perhaps survive this one passage. But another, and
another?--so on, ad infinitum?


"There must be a way out."

Killeen said this with absolute conviction, even though he had
no knowledge of the physics underlying Arthur's colorful display.
Even if a gargantuan alien had made this incinerating rattrap, it
could have made a mistake, left some small unnoticed exit.

He had to believe that or the panic which squeezed his throat
would overwhelm him. He would die like a pitiful animal, caught
on the alien's spit and roasted to a charred hulk. He would end as
a cinder, bobbing endlessly through the central furnace.


TIDES OF LIGHT


141


We might possibly try something at the very high point,
when the hoop begins to curve over far above the pole. We
should come to rest there for a brief instant.


"Good. Good. I can maybe pump some this cooling stuff---"


Refrigerant fluids, yes, I see. Use them in our thruster. But
that would not be enough to attain an orbit.


"How about the hoop? Maybe I could bounce off it up there,
where it's spinning. I could pick up some vector, get free."

Killeen felt Arthur's strangely abstract presence moving, pondering,
consulting Ling and Grey and some Faces, as though this
were merely some fresh problem of passing interest. Falling in
absolute blackness, he felt his stomach convulse. He clamped his
throat shut and gulped back down a mouthful of acid bile.

Now a strange sound came to him. Beneath the ratcheting
whuum-whuum-whuum of the revolving hoop he heard bass gurglings
and ringing pops.


We are picking up the whorls of the planetary magnetic
fields in the core. They sound remarkably like organ notes.


The long, strumming, hollow sounds broke Killeen's attention.
He imagined they were majestic voices calling out to him, beckoning
him into the utter depths of this world ....

No. He shook himself, gasped, and switched the lightpipe
image into his left eye.

The walls outside bristled with incandescent heat, cherry red.
Globs of scorched red churned in the walls.

"Stop your calculatin'! Give me an answer."


Very well. The idea might be marginally possible. I cannot
estimate with certainty. However, it would require that we
be close enough to the hoop-formed wall. The cyborg has
placed us exactly in the center of this tube, as I measure.
We need to move perhaps a hundred meters before we will
be within the pressure shock wave of the hoop as it turns.


"How far's that?"


About as far as you, ah, we can throw a stone.


"That's not so hard. I can use that cooler stuff--"


142


Gregory Benford


Extract it now and we will die in seconds.


"Damnall. I'll do it when we're clear, then."


That is tempting, but I fear it would not be effective. The
tube opens as it rises toward the surface. Here the tube wall
is only a stone's throw away. By the time we are clear of the
core, the walls will be too far to reach in time--unless we
begin to move now.


"Yeasay, yeasay--how?"


Even a small pressure applied now would give us enough
push to reach the wall during the rise out.


"Pressure . . ."

Killeen frowned. The claustrophobic suit filled with the sound
of his own panting, his sour sweat, the naked smell of his fear. He
felt nothing but the clawing emptiness of perpetual falling, of
weightless anxiety. He squinted at the tiny image that came
through the lightpipe.

The walls outside were flooded with fire. The nickel-iron core
only a short distance beyond raged and tossed with prickly white
compressional waves. He flew close to livid pink whorls that
stretched for tens of kilometers, yet passed in a few seconds of
harsh glare. The hoop's constant whuum-whuum-whuum stormed
in his teeth and jaws with grinding persistence.

For a crawling moment he remembered a similar time long
ago on Snowglade. He had gone flying with his new wife, Veron-ica,
and Abraham. Near the Citadel there had been an ancient
tunnel through a mountain, dug during the High Arcology times.
The prickly desert wind swept through it and funnels artfully
increased the gale speed. Where the tunnel turned abruptly vertical
the wind could support a man with wings. He had cast off into
the roaring stream and circled around the tunnel's wide oval
bore. Veronica followed, grinning and wide-eyed. By canting their
wings they could soar and plunge and bank about each other.
Abraham then came swooping down, his yells swept away in the
howl. They had labored against the battering wind and then
harvested its incessant pressures, merrily spiraling around one
another, aloft on the moment . . .

All gone, a time lost forever...

Now...


TIDES OF LIGHT
	143


His tongue seemed to fill his throat. Searing air bit in his
nostrils. His suit was close to overheating. He realized he was
nearing the point where his grip on himself would slip. He would
do something rash to escape the heat and he would die.

But something Arthur had said plucked at his memory. Even a
small pressure . . .

"The light. You said something about it pushing us."


Yes, of course, but that acts equally in all directions.


"Not if we turn some of the silver off."


What? That would-- Oh, I see. If we slightly lessen the
silvering on the front of us, say, by robbing the autocircuits
there of power... yes, then the light will reflect less well.
We will be pushed in that direction by the light striking us
from behind.


"Let's do it. Not much time."


But the heat! Lessening the reflection heightens the absorption.


Killeen had already guessed that. "Show me how to taper down
the silver on my chest."


No, I don't--The temperature outside, it's 3,459 centigrade]
I don't--I can't take--


"Give the info. Now." Killeen kept his mind under tight control.
This was the only way, he felt sure of it, and seconds counted.


Not now, no! I'11--1'11 think of something--something that
will work--yes, work when we get through the core. I'll
review my back memories, VII--


"No. Now."

He felt the Aspect's fear, surging now nearly as strongly as his
own. So the chip-mind had finally broken, revealed the fragments
of its residual humanity.

Deliberately he reached within himself and smothered Arthur's
objections. It called plaintively to him in a small, desperate
whine. Killeen clamped down, forced Arthur back into a cranny.

"NOW."


FOUR


Beq'qdahl's ribbed pores flared a deep, angry yellow.

<The Noughts flee already!)

Quath quickly peered ahead, using the sharp infrared. Motes
were spreading away from the outline of the approaching station.
<They are quick of wit.)

<No, it is we who are as thick as grubs!)

<They seem to have mastered the mechanisms of those
shuttlecraft soon enough.)

<They had time, monopody! You were playing your addled
prank. >

Quath bristled. <We both took part in the little amusement.)
<I wished to get on with our assault.)

Quath said as mildly as she could, <Then you should not have
helped calculate the precise velocity and angle for my flinging of
the little Nought.)

<I--I was sucked in. I had no idea we would suffer such delay,
and miss these vermin. We were to take samples, remember?)

Quath watched the shuttles speed away, spreading like fragments
of an explosion. A nice escape. Already some swept in close
to the glow of the cosmic string, which was rotating on a test run,
to try new magnetic flux generators at both poles. The test would
last only a bit longer, and would not suck more metal from the
core unless there was a pressure failure. The string would keep
the Noughts from reaching the upper atmosphere, but as she
watched the shuttles they mingled with the great slabs of freeze-formed
nickel-iron that laced the high orbits.

Clever pests! She hungered to crush them.

Amid that complex stockpile they could hide quite well, and
no doubt planned to do so. These were no mere ground-grubbed
Noughts, no. As soon as the cosmic string slowed, they would slip
into the planet's atmosphere and air brake. With each working of
the Syphon quakes rocked the planet, but that would scarcely


144


	TIDES OF LIGHT
	145


prevent their landing. Once down, they could find easy refuge in
the jumbled countryside.

<I shall make clear the cause of this foolish mistake, > Beq'qdahl
said ponderously.

Quath spat back, <And I shall rely on the inboard timeline
recordings, which will show what a trifling time we spent on our
game. >

<You would--?>

<Of course.> Such a measure might not carry significant
weight with the elders of the Hive, but Quath was determined to
try.

Beq'qdahl paused, obviously reconsidering. Their ship cruised
along its approach orbit. The station ahead seemed inactive now.
Its bays yawned empty, shuttle ships gone.

A mech-slave signal peeped forth on the main board before

Quath. A large craft hung near the station, probably the Noughts'.
<We can search that cobbled-together ship, > Beq'qdahl said.
<I doubt any Noughts remain there,> Quath said.
<Still... >

<And it looks to be a cramped, skinny ship. We will have to
wedge ourselves into its bowels and search thoroughly. >

<Well, perhaps I can take another position in this entire

matter, > Beq'qdahl said judiciously.

<I should hope so. >

<After all, we have rid the station of pests, have we not?>
<True--and without firing a shot. >

<We can report to the Hive that the mere sight of us ap-

proaching, and our ferocious battlecries, frightened them off. >
<I do not recall that I issued any cries. >
<I did. And so I shall report. >

Quath decided not to challenge this small lie. <Do you think

we will be believed?>

<Surely so!>

Quath relaxed somewhat. She watched one of the fleeing
shuttlecraft on the horizon, where it took up orbit above the aura
of the Cosmic Circle. Alarm shot through her. <That is the
shuttle we intercepted!>

Beq'qdahl ratcheted her pods in disbelief. <No! You were to
commandeer it!>

<I did,> Quath cried in frustration.

<Then there must have been another Nought inside. It has
seized the vessel. > Beq'qdahl's electro-aura seethed with malice.


	146
	Gregory Benford

Acrid hormones flooded the cabin as both of them suffered
involuntary embarrassment. Their bodies acted to rid their lymph
chambers of the corrosive chemicals generated by their sudden,
spiky emotions.

Quath said darkly, <This is a deep humiliation. >

<Yes, and your fault. >

<That will not exempt you, noble pus-sucker. >

Beq'qdahl saw Quath's threat. Her head swiveled and turned

indigo in confusion. <We will both be held accountable?>

<Of course. >

Bitter cadences of violent color washed over Beq'qdahl. <There
must be some way to recover. >

<We could simply not speak of the mission,> Quath said.
<As long as we satisfy the minimum requirements, perhaps no
attention will be paid. After all, this is a minor task. >

<We must bring back some of the vermin for analysis, remember,
> Beq'qdahl said sourly.

<Ah . . . > Quath recalled. It had seemed a small matter at
the time they received their orders. <To see if they are the same
Noughts which have pestered us. >

<And very nearly killed me, > Beq'qdahl added sharply. She
still seemed to take that past battle as a personal affront.

<The Tukar'ramin prefers certainty in these matters, > Quath
answered diplomatically. <And such caution is well repaid, in this
case. These Noughts are canny, if they are the same as the pack I
slaughtered. >

Beq'qdahl fretted. <I would like to cover every possible source
of complaint. >

Quart did not relish the prospect of having to run down one of
the quick, darting shuttles, then pry it open and rummage inside
for a sample Nought. They might easily squash them all and then
have to go after yet another shuttle, All that, in full view of the
thermweave crews who worked in preparing the great metal-mountains.
Was there some other way . . . ? She poked at her
subminds, rummaging for any notion that might help. They chorused
their partial visions.

Beq'qdahl said, <I am quite certain, however, that this taking
of a sample is a minor matter. Surely the Hive will not fault us for
such a negligible>

<Wait,> Quath said brightly. <Wait, I have an idea. >


FIVE


The yellow-white hell soared away above Killeen's head. The walls
nearly seeped a sullen red, but even this was a relief after the
incandescent fury that dwindled now, a fiery disk fading above
him like a dimming, perpetually angry sun.

Killeen panted deeply, though it seemed to do no good. Prickly
waves washed over him, bringing him unbearable itches that
moved in restless storms across his skin. His lungs jerked irregularly.
His arms trembled. Muscles and nerves fought their private
rebellions and wars.

But he had managed to keep his arms and legs straight. The
light pressure would not have forced him in only one direction ff
he had spun or tumbled.

Had it been enough? The long minutes at the core had crawled
by, bringing agonizing lungfuls of scorched air.

Now the searing ebbed slightly.


We are, after all, just another radiating body. We can only
lose heat by emitting it as infrared waves. So we must wait
for cooler surroundings before this intolerable warmth can
disperse.


His Arthur Aspect seemed remarkably collected, given the hysteria
which had beset it only minutes before. "How... how 'bout
that cooling thing?"


You mean our refrigerator? It can only function by ejecting
waste heat at a cooler sink. As yet there are no colder
surroundings, as you can see.


"So we wait till we get out?" It seemed an impossibly long time.
Between his boots he could see the blackness of the planet's
mantle, thousands of kilometers of dead rock they must shoot
through before regaining the dark of space itself. And there he


147


	148
	Gregory Benford


would somehow have to make good this attempt, or else he would
slow and pause and then plunge again. He wished again that he
had saved his thruster fuel. It would give him some freedom,
some hope of being something other than the helpless, dumb test
particle in a grotesque experiment.


We do have some fluids we could eject, but . . ·


"But what? Look, we try everything. Got no hope otherwise."


The refrigerant fluids. We could bring them to a high temperature
and vent them.


"Think it'll help much?"

To lose the coolant meant he would have no chance whatever if
he failed up ahead and fell back into the tube. He would fry for sure.

I cannot tell how much momentum we picked up from that
maneuver. Pushing a large mass such as ourselves with
mere light pressure . ··


Killeen gave a jittery laugh. "I'm the mass here you weigh
nothin' at all. And don't you worry 'bout calculatin' what'11 happen.
Time comes, up at the top of this hole, I'll have to grab
whatever's in sight. Fly by the seat of my pants, not some
eee-quation."


Then I should vent the refrigerant fluids?


"Sure. Bet it all!" Killeen felt small icy rivulets coursing along
his neck as he let the Aspect take fractional control of his inboard


systems.


I am warming the poly-xenor now.


"And when you spray it, just use the spinal vents. That'll
give us another push in the right direction. Could make the
difference."


Oh, I see. I did not think of this possibility.


"Trouble with you Aspects is you can't imagine anythin' you
haven't seen 'fore."


TIDES OF LIGHT


149


Let us not debate my properties at quite this time. We are
rising toward the surface and you must be ready. I believe
the wall you face is nearer now. Notice the sparkling?


"Yeasay. What's it mean?"


That is where the mantle rock is forced by sidewise pressure
against the passing cosmic string. It is disintegrated on
impact. I cannot see whether it is somehow incorporated
into the string, or whether it is simply forced back. For
whatever reason, the rock is held back. Clearly, the cyborgs
must relax this hoop pressure somehow, down in the core,
in order to fill this tube with the liquid iron we saw before.


"Maybe they just slow it down some? Let the iron squish in a
lfl 'fore the next time the string comes whizzin' by?"

In the midst of techtalk he lapsed back into the short, clipped
speech of his boyhood in the Citadel. The carefully assumed
veneer of Cap'n rubbed away under the press of action. Killeen
fumbled with the suit refrigerator controls. He knew he had to
understand more about the hoop.


Possibly. Clearly the rotating string exerts great pressure
against these rocks.


Killeen watched the quick flashing in the walls. For him to see
these sparks at all, they must be enormous, since his speed took
him by kilometers of the ruby-red rock in an instant. He had no
bodily sensation of speed, but knew from the 3D simulation
Arthur ran in his left eye that he was rising toward the surface,
slowing as gravity asserted itself.

He had to find a way to escape the tube, but no idea came to
him. He had nothing he could throw to gain momentum. The
coolant jet throbbed behind him, but relative to the blur of
motion in the walls he could not tell whether it did any good. It
occurred to him that if he was too successful he would crash into
the speeding wall and be torn to pieces in an instant. Somehow
the abstract nature of these things, the dry, distant feel of science,
frightened him all the more.


The tube is flaring out. We are approaching one side of it,
but I cannot judge our velocity well. As we rise, the hoop
curves away to make its great arc outward. The majesty of it
is impressive, I must say. No mechtech I have ever heard of


	150
	Gregory Benford

matches this. Grey says the historical records suggest even
greater works near the Eater.


"Forget that. What can I do?"


I am trying to see how we can use our situation, but I must

say that a solution continues to elude me. The dynamics--


	"We're gettin' close. Come on!"

	The rock around him had already ceased glowing. Beyond the

	walls lay complete darkness. He could not understand how he

	could be moving up from the center of New Bishop and yet still

	feel that he was falling. No matter; science was a set of rules to

	him, and this was simply a rule he did not comprehend.

	The tunnel was broadening. A shimmering golden passage

	flared gradually as he gazed between his boots at shards of light

	that rushed toward him. More vast lava lakes, brimming with

	angry reds. The injury to the whole axial length had brutally

	shoved great masses together, making the walls around him froth

	with the planet's jagged orange wrath.

	Again he thought of what would happen if he could do nothing

	up ahead. The cool logic of dynamics would, Arthur said, fling him

	back into the core. The heat would kill him on the next pass. Or if

	it managed only to send him into delirium, there would be an-

other cycle, and another, and another 	He
would bob end-
lessly,
a crisp cinder obeying simple but inexorable laws. Instantly
he was swimming in light.
Stars
bloomed beneath his feet. A bowl of brilliant gas and suns
opened as he shot free of the planet's grasp, above the twilight
line. After the sultry darkness this sky was a welcoming
bath
of colors and contrasts.
Out,
free!
He
could feel his suit cool as it lost heat to the cold sky. It went
ping, pop as joints contracted. Wrinkled hills rose above his head,
the whole landscape stretching as it drew away. Here, too, was
the stripped look, as though the polar ice had only recently been
vanquished.
The
golden walls fell away from him on one side, but in front
of him the radiance did not fade or recede. It was much closer. He
had gained some significant speed, then.

But now he was losing his speed along the tube. He watched


	TIDES OF LIGHT
	,151


the planet above his helmet turn into a gigantic silvery bowl. The
dawnline cut this bowl in half. A ruby skyglow of dustclouds and
stars dominated the wan day.

As he rose the world's curve brought into view a far-off scruff
of woodland and stark, jutting mountains. Fluffy white clouds
clung to shallow valleys.

His rate of rise dwindled. The far side of the hoop-tube was
bending away. In front of him the glow was brighter. He took a
few moments to be sure he was in fact curving over along with the
hoop walls. Could he see the flicker of motion from the rapidly
rotating string? He had begun to think of the walls as solid, and
now he became aware of their gauzy nature.


The cosmic string can exert pressure only when it is very
near you, of course. You will not in fact strike the cosmic
string itself, I judge.


"Thought you said it'd take off my hand."


I have conferred further with Grey. She believes that normally
a string would function like a scythe. However, this
highly magnetized string is different. Until now you were
moving with respect to the string at high speeds. Now you
will have a low relative velocity, but only for a brief moment.
At such speeds the string's magnetic fields will repulse
your metallic boots and suit.


"Huh." Killeen supposed this was good news, but the Aspect
spoke as though this was just another dispassionate physics problem.
"Look, you save any that cooler stuff?."


Yes, I had anticipated that we might need another push. But
there is very little. I needed it all to keep us from losing
consciousness back there, and so--


"Get ready."

Already he could detect no further shrinking in the wrecked

face of New Bishop below. He must be near the top of his swing.
"Fire it!"

He felt the jetting pressure at his back. The glowing hoop-tube
curled away like an opening funnel. Beyond he could see the
gossamer surface generated by the globe-spanning cosmic string.
It appeared now to wrap the world in a ribbony stranglehold.


	152
	Gregory Benford


The venting at his spine gurgled to a stop.
Whuum-whuum-whuum, the magnetic rotor sang.

Vibrant, intense glow spread all around him. He windmilled
his arms and brought his boots down toward the golden surface. It
pulsed with freshening energy.

He felt as though he were a fragile bird, vainly flailing its
wings above a sheet of translucent, wispy gold. Falling toward it.
Performing his own sort of experiment...

The impact slammed him hard. It jarred up through his boots
like a rough, wrenching punch. He had crouched, letting his legs
absorb the momentum. Suddenly he was shooting along the surface
of the sheet.


It has conveyed impulse to you, an infinitesimal fraction of
its spinning energy.


Killeen felt himself loft slightly higher. Then he came down
toward the sheet again. He had shot sidewise, away from the polar
axis, going out on a tangent like a coin flung off a merry-go-round.

He hit again. This time the jolt twisted his ankle. It felt like a
hand grabbing at him, then losing its grip. But it gave him another
push---outward.


I estimate you are gaining significant velocity from these
encounters. It is difficult to calculate, but--


Killeen ignored the tiny piping Aspect. His ankle ached. Was it
broken?

He had no time to bend over and feel it. The shimmering
plain came rising toward him again, hard and fiat.

He grunted with pain. The shock caught his feet and flung him
off at a steep angle, twisting him with a sharp, wrenching stab.


You will have to be more careful as you set down upon it. It
can convey spin, but if your velocity is not aligned with its,
there is a vector coupling, a torque--


"Shut up!" He did not want to set down on the golden surface
again, the ghostly curtain that could clutch and break him like a
stick.

But the velocity he was picking up from the thing flung him
sidewise, not up. Only his rebounding kept him above the flicker-


	TIDES OF LIGHT
	153


ing radiance. If he slipped, tumbled, went shooting across the
damned thing as he spun out of control--

The flickering golden sheet rushed at him.

He struck solidly. This time his left leg shrieked with distress
and he barely managed to kick free. The strobing glow seemed all
around him. He was going to hit again.

He windmilled. This time the shock was not as great but the
muscles of his left leg seized up in an agonizing spasm.

Blinking away sweat, a weakness came over him. His ears
rang. He wearily spun himself again, slower this time because the
motion hurt his leg.

He expected to hit quicker but the jolt did not come. He
looked down and could not judge the distance. The glow had
dimmed. It took a long moment before he realized that the sheet
was curving farther away from him, wrapping down to follow the arc
of the planet.

He was free. Out. In the clean and silent spaces.


We are on a highly elliptical orbit, I gather. It should take us
at a significant angle with respect to this hoop-plain. I cannot
calculate the details, so it may be that we will return within
its volume.


"Never mind," he said, panting.


We will need the information in due time, however, and--


"I doubt it, Look up."

Obsessed with its own mathematics, the Aspect piped with
surprise as it responded to what Killeen saw.

Above them floated the sleek metallic body of the cyborg.


SIX


Quath made her way cautiously through murky warrens.

After the buoyant vault of space, these tunnels and cramped
corridors weighed heavily on her, their air clotted and musky.
Around her surged the endless parade of working podia, bound on
their relentless missions, clattering and banging against one another
in their haste. Lesser beings of russet scabrous shells scampered
underfoot, bound on their menial tasks. They had been
hatched in the bodies of native animals, to save the Hive's resources.
Genetically programmed, they worked with fanatic purpose,
as though they knew their own short lifespans.

Quath, though, went slowly. The presence inside her throbbed.
The Nought kicked and fought, its puny jabs an irritant impossible
to ignore. Her ceramic sensors saw it as a burning tangle of
infrared deep in her guts.

But it was not this small nettling that bothered Quath. She
knew what lay ahead of her, and so dawdled, picking at her cilia as
though grooming herself. Some tiny hatchlings approached and
Quath let them police her carapace. They caught microparasites,
which were the inevitable inconvenience of strange worlds: native
mites who had already learned to feast on the leaky joint sleeves
and porous sheaths of the podia.

Soon, too soon, the great glowing cavern of the Tukar'ramin
opened before her. Its murky mouth seemed to swallow all the
certainties of her life.

*You have done well,* the Tukar'ramin greeted her from high
in the glistening webs.

Quath preened at this ruby-flavored compliment, until she saw
that Beq'qdahl had entered simultaneously from another of the
innumerable tunnels that gave onto the Tukar'ramin's underbowl.
Beq'qdahl did an artful dance with her many legs, accepting the
Tukar'ramin's words as if they were directed at her alone.

<We did little more than your wiseness instructed,> Quath


154


TIDES OF LIGHT


155


said, using the collective noun first for formality. Then, to irritate
Beq'qdahl, she shi[{ed to first person. <And I have captured one

of the pernicious Noughts who infested the station. >

*What breed of Nought is this?*

<A soft-skinned, bilegged thing. Crafty for its size. >
*Doubtless so, for it engaged that station and co-opted the
mechs there. I had understood that we had total control there. Yet
these Noughts infested with humiliating ease.*

There was no doubt, from the grammatically past-imperative
hormonal inflections, that Quath and Beq'qdahl were among those
humiliated.

Quath suppressed the impulse to cock her pods into a gesture
of total apology and mercy-plead. Instead, she quickly transmitted
a set of images and sensory details of the thing. These were taken
after she had stripped it of its suit and weapons, back inside their
ship.

<Observe, please, from your lofty perspective,> Quath said
reverently. <This thing displays obvious signs of recent evolution.
Note the hair--atop its head and at the genitals only. The former
for protection from sunlight I believe, The latter--perhaps some
primitive way of gathering attractive musk about the area it would
most like to have revered by others?>

*Doubtless some such business. Absence of a pelt does suggest
a highly sensory life, serving as it does to expose the surface
nerves optimally. *

<Filthy creatures!> Beq'qdahl hissed severely.

<But effective.> Quath seized the chance to appear more
shrewd. <I believe it had taken the shuttle ship to the vicinity of
the Syphon in order to study it. >

<Nonsense!> Beq'qdahl jeered. <I directed that shuttle to
leave the station, as soon as its inboard systems showed presence
of Noughts. To harvest a sample. >

*We cannot be too careful here,* the Tukar'ramin said slowly.
*This Nought may have intelligence and mastery beyond its apparent
mawkishness. *

<I agree.> Quath ventured to release a scent of confidence,
edged with dangling, frayed filigrees of mature concern. She was
about to add that she had kept the sample Nought for further
study, when the Tukar'ramin continued thoughtfully, plainly without
registering Quath's words.

*Well that you disposed of them all, then. They are oddly
able. Even one might cause hindrance to us.*


156

Gregory Benford

Both Quath and Beq'qdahl fell silent. Quath struggled to find a
way to agree and yet not divulge the truth, so she was glad when
Beq'qdahl said, <They scattered before us like grains of dust! We
chased them relentlessly into the upper atmosphere, where they
flamed into oblivion. >
The fierceness of this declaration could not cover the underlying
sweet cut of self-doubt that Beq'qdahl leaked from her unruly
hind glands.
*Reentry fires, you mean?*
<Most, yes. I could not count them all.>
Quath bristled at Beq'qdahl's use of I when they had both
done the searching. She quickly felt better, though, when the
Tukar'ramin said forcefully, *You should have savaged them all!*
Beq'qdahl choked with mortification and farted a foul cloud of
orange fear. She managed to get out, <I, that is, we-->
*You were senior, Beq'qdahl. Can you assure me that these
Noughts, who may even have the power to voyage between stars,
are vanquished?*
<SUch assurances are surely impossible, savant of my life. >
This was a deft diplomatic sally, mingled with pious fogs of
humble oil, Quath thought. But it brought Beq'qdahl no credit.
*Then set about making sure of your task.*
<Of course. Is this to be our task or mine alone?>
*You are senior in experience. You both now sport six legs.
Quath seems to be gathering her wits quite ably. I suppose you
may call upon her for assistance. She acquitted herself well--perhaps
better than you.*
Burnt-yellow splashes of barely suppressed anger/anxiety shot
up and down Beq'qdahl's thorax, but her voice remained crustfly
formal. Pleased, Quath glimpsed a tinge of bluegreen envy betraying
Beq'qdahl in her milky proboscis hairs.
<I assume I may continue my fruitful mining explorations,
while seeing to this minor problem?> Beq'qdahl asked.
*What? What?*
Quath saw at once that Beq'qdahl had miscalculated. Waves of
an unknown emotion jetted down from the Tukar'ramin. *Pursue
these Noughts! Drop your mining. I have received word that the
Illuminates themselves have taken notice of these events.*
The very mention of these august entities stilled the chilly air
of the great rock cavern.
*Beq'qdahl, do not seek to vainly augment yourself when a
vital mission awaits.*

	TIDES OF LIGHT
	157

<I assure you, revered one, I did not-->
*You can begin with a task of some risk, since your errors have
precipitated this trouble. Witness--*
Into Quath came a picture of the station. Beside it, now
damped firmly by crosshatched stays, was the Nought ship.
Beq'qdahl began, <We can-->
Chords of vexed concern sounded through the unfilled spaces
of the image, sucking Quath along with the Tukar'ramin's mood.
*This little vessel is their conveyance. You ignored it. Perhaps
some still cower within. Your task is to cleanse this eraft. Inspect,
analyze! Find its inner minds. Flay them open for my inspection.*
Startled beneath this torrent of stench-commands and acrid
air-cuts, Beq'qdahl tried to protest. <I, we, cannot master all the
craft necessary to--->
*Go] Now!*
The sudden spitting-green anger of the Tukar'ramin startled
Quath. She was grateful that Beq'qdahl caught the force of it, a
yellow-white jet that scoured through Quath's sensorium. Beq'qdahl,
in the full stream, backed away with trembling legs.
The Tukar'ramin did not dismiss them, in fact took no further
notice of the two scurrying forms. They scrambled away as the
Tukar'ramin's bulk tugged itself up glistening damp strands into
lofty darkness.
Quath felt Beq'qdahl's jittery, addled state as the two scuttled
away. On a subchannel Beq'qdahl sent her preliminary thoughts
about logistics, search patterns, weapons--assembled impressively
quickly, considering the blistering she had received.
Quath's thoughts submerged beneath a rising distress. She
broke away from Beq'qdahl and fled down a narrow shaft, letting
herself fall in the hushed cool air until the depths of the warren
rushed past. Somehow her petrifying fear of heights did not occur
in the cramped chute. Heights in the open---or, far worse, flying--terrified
her race. Beq'qdahl had overcome this, another reason to
despise her.
Her magnetic brakes pulsed. A passing food-cloud brought
stinging encrustations to her eyes--yet it was as though she ambled
in a dream.
She registered nothing, consumed by the unspoken lie that
she now carried within. The Tukar'ramin and Beq'qdahl and all
the podia assumed that she had snuffed out the Nought after
taking samples from it. They would expect immediate scrapes of
skin and nuggets of brain, to better understand the pests.


	158
	Gregory Benford

But the Nought rapped against her inner steel partitions. It
thrashed and jerked and emitted foul odors. Perhaps the thing had
even excreted inside Quath. What a risk to incur, all for Nought!

Quath's levered arms began to pry open her innermost
carrypouch to pluck out the Nought--but she slowed, tugged by
flickering doubt... and stopped.

This puny thing was indeed the same breed of Nought which
she had slaughtered with valor in defense of Beq'qdahl. In the
moments after her victory she had studied the carcass of such a
Nought. That had helped her to cast off her fear of death.

So for this one last Nought she felt an odd sense of connection.
She had told herself at first, on the way down from orbit, that
keeping the Nought alive was simply a way to be sure her samples
were fresh. But once in the smoky, constricted warrens, she had
begun to feel vague musings, strange lacings of sensation, canted
views of her world.

It was the Nought. At this intimate range, her probings of it
had overlapped the Nought's own surprisingly complex sensorium--which
felt to Quath like a spherical coil of brightly colored threads,
writhing like languid serpents.

Try as she might, she could not penetrate the knot. A small,
oily pocket of exotic zest now seeped into Quath's mind. She
could not give it up. Not yet.

The thing inside interlaced with Quath's electro-aura, giving
forth images and undefinable tangs. They led her down into a
labyrinth of airless corridors, lit by scattershot, smoky fogs, brooding
silences, lurid accelerations down unseen gradients. This small
creature dwelled in a slanted universe blurred by currents, hormones,
scents.

Something in this tilted world caught in Quath. Blunt wedges
of pinched obstruction bloomed bony-hard inside her. Her pale
certainties splintered. The already shifty terrain of her oblique
interior landscape warped and canted.

But she had no choice, Quath thought. She must. The
Tukar'ramin would banish Quath forever if she knew, cast her into
a starved life of ragged foraging in the ruined lands beyond the
Hive ....

Worse, she could not merely yield it forth, no---too late for
that. Quath had to slaughter the unfolding thing within her. Hide
it. Mash the body into paste, pack it into porous walls where it
could never be found, or recognized, or understood.

Could she? Quath teetered on the brink.


SEVEN

Killeen could barely breathe.

He swam in a cloying fluid, but when he opened his mouth to
gasp it did not fill with the syrupy acid-tinged gelatinous stuff that
surrounded him, buoyed him, made his every movement sluggish
and impotent.

Dreamlike, he thrashed. Swam. Punched angrily at torpid air
that caught his fists in cobwebbed resistant softness, blunting every
movement.

Like a baby in an awful ambient pouch, he thought. Helpless
and fearing birth.

His skin was a stretched, livid thing. The burning he had
suffered now returned doubly. A searing, itching sheet covered
him, tight, a livid seethe. He ran numbed hands over his chest
and thighs, and each touch brought an angry, prickly dart that

launched small storms of heat across him.

Something scratched at his mind.

A clawing itch that worked its way inward. A stuttering run
down his spine.

Cool liquid pain. He braced himself against this sudden brute
invasion.

A tentative, telescoped presence slid by him in murky shadow.
Tiny warm breezes licked him, featbering his hair.

Something massive and deliberate circled. It moved in tides of
light, fillgreed by dancing shadows that fiittered like small mad
birds against the windowpanes of his mind.

Abruptly he was not in the tight, rubbery air. Before him
welled a streaming aura. Red and pink scraped and rustled. Shifting
blobs drifted, eclipsing each other like sluggish planets. Their
shadows played among blue traceries.

He squinted, or thought he did. His arms and legs still swam
in the gurgling, patient fluid that forgave all movement, but he
smelled an acrid wind. Heard harsh clacks and clatters. Tasted


159


	160
	Gregory Benford


blood and a biting, cool jelly. Glimpsed a foggy tunnel projecting
away from him in ruddy, smoldering splendor.

He realized that the cyborg had tapped into his sensorlure. It
was sampling him--he could feel a blunt, chilly, awkward rummaging.
Astringent light played along rumpled walls nearby. Slithery
harmonics played somewhere, lurking just beyond clear hearing.

And he had gained symmetric access to its warped world. A
ledge studded with ornately shaped protrusions swept by. Without
something he knew for comparison he could not tell how quick
this motion was, but a sickening tug in his stomach told him of
lurching acceleration, wrenching turns around corners, abrupt
surges up seemingly impossible wall slopes.

Gobbets brown and sticky rained down everywhere. They
were languid, oscillating spheres that blew on a warm wind,
voluptuous and fat. Killeen realized that a dim echo of the cyborg's
hunger had leaked through to him, making his mouth
water. A savory drop struck the wall and bounced, wobbly and fat
and beckoning.

The cyborg ate it. A rasping tang shot through him, not in his
mouth but somehow up and down his chest, striking hard into his
cock, squeezing his ass tight in an exquisite, ungovernable reflex.
Killeen felt a stretched sense of something plunging through him,
blundering.

The cyborg accelerated. Killeen felt himself rushing with a
rolling yaw toward a snub-nosed cylinder of white and orange. The
cyborg did not slow and Killeen instinctively braced himself for a
collision--which did not come.

Instead, the cylinder swallowed them. What had appeared to
be a protruding point was instead an opening. As they sped
through hexagonal tunnels, banking up onto the side faces with
centrifugal ease, Killeen began to get a sense of the place outside.
Arthur said:


Your eyes saw the cylinder as pointing toward us, because
of the cast of shadows. Grey points out that the human eye
has evolved to see by light from the sky, remember, and
reads shadows with that bias. Here the glow comes from
the floor, and more weakly from the walls. The shadows are
therefore reversed, and mean the opposite of what your
automatic reactions assume.


"Can you change that?"


TIDES OF LIGHT


161


No--such matters are buried deep in the brain. The cyborg
sees by infrared, I gather. On a perpetually cloudy planet,
the ground would often be warmer than the sky, and thus
more luminous in the infrared. Such an evolutionary aspect
would explain why these tunnels are floor-illuminated. Since
we are receiving this cyborg's raw data, we process it with
our bias and get exactly the upside.down result. To see as it
does we would have to invert your accustomed perception
patterns.


"Look, how can I get quit of this?"


Consider--such an ability probably implies that th ' ·

species, which has now o,bor-a: 	e,ongJ.
nal
g.ro.
und. It no doubt foraged bove oro-,a ,cl. u, noer:

,,,u, out Imrarecl
vs,on would allow it to see from the warmed walls of its

burrows. Once occupied, their own body heat would allow
them some dim wall radiance. Such ecological niches stress
skills at construction and three-dimensional spatial abilities.
Perhaps this explains why they are building the huge things
in orbit.


"Guttin' this planet, just so they can build bigger anthills?"

Perhaps so; evolution is destiny, I've always believed. But
there are other implications.


talk."Somethin' we can use?" Killeen had listened to enough empty


My first conclusion is that we're underground, doubtless. If
we leave this pouch we're in, we'll wander quite blindly
through a maze of tunnels. Hopeless to escape, I fear.


Killeen grunted sourly.


I advise caution.


"Don't see it much matters what I do."


Until we know why it brought you here we shoud remain
flexible.


Ki]leen tried to distance himself from the sensations that washed
through him, tried to think. Despairing, he wondered what had


	162
	GregoW genord

	happened to the Family. He had gotten a distant impression, as

	the cyborg ship reeled him in, of other craft moving swiftly in the

	sky. His comm had squawked twice with human voices, faint and
unintelligible.
	'
Has anyone survived? It was one thing for a Cap n to die in a
chance encounter with a mech, or with a thing like this huge
assembly of living and mechlike parts, and quite another to be cut
off from your command, still alive while everyone you loved and
honored was dead, killed by your own incompetence.
He made himself envision possibilities. The cyborgs might tot
have bothered to get Jocelyn from the Flitter. But unless she got
to the surface, the Cap'nc¥ would go to Cermo automatically. He
wasn't quick to lead in a crisis. The man would try, of course, but
Shibo would probably have to make the hard decisions. She and
Cermo could hold the Family together on alien soil.
If any of them still lived · , ·

PART FOUR -- SUCH MEN ARE DANGEROUS

ONE

The pouch clenched and split and spewed him out.
Killeen gasped for breath, as though he had been holding a
single lungful the entire time--days? weeks? he was enclosed. The
featherlight emulsifying fluid that had held him somehow managed
to bring air and food in through his lungs, for he felt no hunger.
He got to his knees, expecting to see tunnels in the cyborg
warren. Instead a fresh, sharp breeze brought him smells of
fragrant mold and dusty hills. His eyes cleared. Fuzzy patterns
telescoped into crisp images, the world seeming to stretch and
draw closer to him.
He stood in a field of crumpled stone, weaving unsteadily. His
ankles ached with the memory of slamming into the cosmic string's
sheen of magnetic pressures.
The cyborg rose like an unlikely natural encrustation behind
him. Its double-jointed arms smoothed a fast-healing seam.
Useless to run, he thought. He shook himself dry--though the
moisture he felt seemed to be beneath his skin, not on it--while
the cyborg clicked and hummed and watched him. They were
alone together in a blasted landscape. In the distance Killeen
could see what appeared to be a malformed hill but he instantly
knew it was an entrance to some mech structure. Craters pocked it.
It had the empty, defeated look of a skull.
He felt a tickling throughout his body, like cold wires drawn
slickly out of him, letting his arms and legs relax into smooth
sausages of muscle. He wobbled.
Images cascaded in his mind--silent, meditative, embroidered.
Section views of Argo. A striking picture of something large and
sticky-white, attached to descending, puffy-pale strands.

163


164


Gregory Benford


Then, like a swift slap in the face out of nowhere, it let him go.
His mind lost its pervasive, leaden fog. He felt a grimy wind stir
his hair.

The cyborg's massive bulk moved away. It had a long, lizardy
tail that ended in an antenna, like the bulb of a leathery flower.

The cyborg simply walked away, moving with surprising speed.
Its many legs clacked and hummed.

Killeen limped away across the broken land, sore and tired.
Slanting sunlight brought a twilight glow to a far rumpled ridgeline
of tawny hills.

He stopped and leaned over to shake his head. Some milky
stuff oozed from his ear and his hearing sharpened. Slime
dripped from his suit.

The cutting yet spongy-sweet smell of the eyborg's interior
spaces clung to him. He began trotting. Soon his own sweat
washed away the alien scent.

For hours he made his way down a crushed valley. The cosmic
string hung just above the horizon, its dull ruby-hued curve
cutting across the shimmering of a frayed molecular cloud. Killeen
remembered the perceptions he had gotten (accidentally?) from
the cyborg--something about a temporary halt, stilling the cosmic
string, to allow construction to catch up with the supply of vacuum-formed
nickel-iron. Now magnetic fingers held the loop steady, a
smoldering cut in the sky.

Without its bright golden glow the slow coming of sunset
allowed the far reaches around Abraham's Star to display their
fitful life. Faint flashes wriggled deep within the glowering banks
that hung beyond this cramped solar system. Quick bursts of
saffron yellow seethed against a slowly gathering wash of blue.
Vibrant pink discharged energies within a cloak of sullen brown
dust. Spidery scarlet filaments formed and died and swelled again,
as though beads of blood caught the setting sun and glinted with
evil beauty.

Killeen wondered ff these momentary effervescences that washed
through dark sinews of dust were mechworks, or natural storms
and tossings brought forth by the constant whirl of matter in the
Galactic Center. Or could unimaginable tools like the cosmic
string be at work there?

He moved cautiously, using natural cover. There was plenty of
it among the upturned stone slabs and jutting hummocks. The
cyborg had returned to him all his equipment, even his shortarm
rifle. His shanks were fully fueled. His Arthur Aspect commented:


TIDES OF LIGHT


165


Indeed, they have far greater capacity. Your suit reading
says there is more than one hundred kiloJoules stored in
each fuel gram--far higher than anything Snowglade tech
achieved. The cyborg has outfitted us well.


Killeen moved cautiously, ignoring the tiny pleadings of his
Aspects. In this strange world he relied on the instincts of his youth.
His hunting senses were still tuned to the subtle graces of
Snowglade. Here each detail was slightly skewed. He automatically
searched each gully for a trap, sniffed the breeze for oily
clues. A distant cone-shaped mountain gave the air an acidic tinge
with a long, charcoal plume.

The land needed rest. Everywhere once-proud eliifs had
slumped. Layers of rock splayed out like decks of eards tossed
aside by a bored gargantuan. Dust covered every ledge and narrow,
and fat dirty clouds of it drifted lazily on the horizon.

Yet here and there tinkling springs leaped into the air, frivolous
fountains among ancient upturned strata. He stopped by one
and let the stream play over his hands. Scooping some into his
face, he tasted a distant, rusty echo of waters he had drunk on
Snowglade so long ago.


The internal heat liberated from the infall has worked outward
from the core. I suspect deep-buried ice deposits are
melting, providing this water.


"Uh-huh."

Killeen was not in a mood for techtalk from Arthur. Still less
welcome was the piping voice of Ling. He needed to flee the
clogged, solemn pockets of his mind; the cyborg had left a damp,
musty smell there.

It was time also to let go the control he had sustained for so
long, while the cyborg rummaged through him.

All that while he had run his mind from the top down, keeping
consciousness in the foreground, a hard layer which his lower
minds could not penetrate. Now he let his inner self emerge and
relax, beginning to digest his wrenching experience and make his
mind's peace with them. The simple fact of living, of survival, was
a continuous miracle. He gave himself over to it. From Snowglade's
raw battles he knew the sensation well, and relished it. Pain,
grief, fear, rage--all had to flourish and ebb and find their places.

Bemused, he released his Aspects--Ling, Grey, Arthur, even
the lesser Faces like Budsand allowed them to play joyfully in a


166


Gregory Benford


cloistered pocket of him, but without letting their squeaky voices
snag his attention. They frolicked as they tasted the chilling air of
New Bishop, caught the dusty fragrances. They talked to and
through one another, minute presences strumming through his
sensory net, streaming by integrating nodes and causative factor
points.

So much had happened to him! To avoid crippling disorder, he
had to enlist his Aspects and Faces in at least a partial integration of
his torments. Without the Family he was an odd scrap wandering
this smashed world . ·· but he did not know if the Family lived.
He had to keep himself together until he knew, even if that meant
years of questing.

So he focused on the crushed forests that he picked his way
through, on the gutted plains and ruptured ridgelines that swept
beneath his fast-flying boots. The limp was gone, his servos responded
again, and now he was gnawingly hungry.

Family Bishop had always been deft foragers, and he called up
an old woman's Face to help him locate edible berries and leaves.
She was a cranky sort, full of curt advice. Much of her lore did not
apply to this strange world. She found tasty roots but squawked
with alarm at the acidic leaves and ellipsoidal fruit he found.
Tentative bites told him they were suitable.

He prowled the wrecked forest. Trees had been slapped and
mangled by a vastly casual malice. They slanted crazily, exposing
their bowls of snaky roots. Leaves of exact, pale green circles piled
high in streambeds, and small things skittered deep in them.
Damp fiats were covered with tracks: three-toed, seven-toed,
split-wedged, with some broad smooth pads. Killeen had never
seen traces of such large creatures, and they filled him with
respect for the past wealth of this place. His Arthur Aspect
put in:


All the cyborgs' work, of course. They emptied the tube we
fell through. That kilometer-wide shaft caused the land to
fall only the length of a finger here.

"Huh? Take that much rock and metal out, seems like there'd
be a big drop here, too."

Not at all; it is a property of simple geometry. The loss is
spread over the much larger surface area of the planet.
Watch--


TIDES OF LIGHT
	167


The three-color diagram that sprung into Killeen's right eye
made sense, once he studied it, but even so--- "Droppin' a finger's
length did all this?"


All layers felt it. Seismic adjustments occur unevenly.


up,


"I'll say."

Killeen was crossing a clearing. Suddenly a tan fountain sprayed

showering water and sand on him.


Ah yes. Hydrostatic forces still being released. The vibrations
have made the soil here more like a slurry.


Rolling, sea-swell tremors drove Killeen to make for more solid
ground, drowning out the Aspect voice in his own panting. He
found edible leaves and chewed them down with relish. The
ground continued shaking and bucking, as if trying to throw off
the scum of persistent life.

Filled for the first time in what seemed like days, he began to
feel better once he broke into a steady, loping trot. Over the next
line of hills lay a mech city. It had been torn to pieces. Explosions
had ripped apart immense factories. Much of the destruction
seemed to have come from charges planted inside, as though
someone had smuggled in bombs.

Brown mech carapaces lay strewn everywhere. Something had
scavenged the bodies for parts. Cyborgs, he guessed.

He wandered in the hush of the ruined streets. No mechs
labored to put this right. Nothing moved. At some intersections
towers of ornately worked alloys rose. Killeen remembered the art
of the Mantis and could not tell if these spindly things had some
function or were intended to ornament the city.

He felt uneasy in the mechworks and did not try to find food
among the ruins. At sundown he still had not crossed the sprawling
mechplex. That night he hid in a parts shed and slept. He
awoke several times, pursued by fevered dreams. His time inside
the alien returned and he strangled in jellied air, vainly swimming
upward, his lungs scalded. Each awakening left his arms and legs
clenched tight as though he had been fighting in his sleep. And
then he would doze off and again the dream would come.

Before dawn something moved nearby. He carefully peered
out. A large animal was creeping closer. The largest creature he
had ever seen was an old orange chicken back at the Citadel. This


	168
	Gregory Benford

thing could easily eat the chicken in one gulp. Something about its
large teeth told Killeen that this idea might be pleasing to the
animal.

Plainly it had scented him. After all his years of hunting mechs
and being hunted by them, he had no idea how to deal with the
animal. It came nearer. Its ears flattened. Killeen held his rifle at
the ready. Silently he stepped from the door of the shed and stood
watching. The animal froze. They remained that way for a long
time. A strange sense of communion stole over Killeen. Its yellow
eyes were clear and deep.

Pale dawn seeped around them. The animal finally licked its
lips with bored unconcern and walked away. It stopped at the
corner of a storage bin nearby and looked back at him once and
then went on.

As Killeen set out walking again he realized his rifle was set for
an electromag pulse. It would have had no effect whatever on the
animal.

Without thinking about much of anything, he felt conflicts
within him flare and simmer and die. Beneath this world's calm,
the natural clasp of life pealed forth its own silent message.


TWO


The day was sharp and clear. He found berries and edible leaves
and kept going. Faint sounds from a second destroyed mech city
made him skirt around it until he could find another route.

From a distance the buckled ramparts reminded him of his last
sight of the Citadel, at the Calamity. Innumerable times he had
replayed that day in his dreams. The very air had seemed to roll
and stretch, he remembered. Rippling radiances had washed the
clouds even before the mech attack on Citadel Bishop began,
giving them some warning. Not enough, though, for the mechs
had thrown immense resources into their assault. His father had
been at the center of the Citadel's defense. Despite the desperation
that crept over them all as the first reports came in, all bad,
Abraham had kept a calm, unhurried manner. Killeen had been
nearby when the mechs breached a Citadel wall. Abraham had
directed an effective flanking attack on the intrusion. Killeen had
not even comprehended the mech purpose until his father's deft
sally cut off the head of the mech advance and chopped the
remnants to pieces.

But then he had lost sight of his father in the hammering chaos
of multiple assaults. Mech aircraft had bombed the central Citadel
and the ramparts fell.

Killeen had helped carry ammunition to the air-defense guns
as strange lights filled the sky. They all had sensed unseen presences
above the battle.

When Killeen's wife, Veronica, died he had ceased to register
very much. He had felt her death in his sensorium, since they
were linked. But it had taken a long chaotic time to find her, to be
sure.

He stood on a far hill, looking back meditatively at the meeh
city. Part of him relished the sight of the mighty meehs brought
low. Another remembered the Citadel, and not only because of
the city. The sky far beyond began to move with washes of pale


169


	170
	Gregory Benford

luminescence in a way that reminded him of the Calamity. The
luminosity was in the air itself, not the fainter play of colors in
molecular clouds. The sight chilled him.

Yet it also recalled his encounters on Snowglade with an entity
which had somehow spoken through the magnetic fields of the
planet itself. The thing had talked incomprehensibly of Abraham,
and of issues Killeen could not follow. Recalling that, he wondered
if the magnetic being had been at the Calamity, had lit the
sky with its witnessing. Why should such a vast thing care for the
doings of a small, inconsequential race? There were no answers.

Killeen finally shook off the mood and moved on. The quiet of
the natural world enfolded him.

But then a biting sulfuric tinge filled his nose. A hollow bass
note caught at the outer edge of his sensorium. A mech trace?

It carried a strange sugary aftertaste, though, unlike any mech
signature he knew. His sensorium translated its electromag-tags
into smells because that was the human sense directly linked to
memory centers; a brief whiff of an old odor brought long-buried
memories welling up, often of use.

Killeen slipped between the slumped trunks of trees that
somehow still showed fresh green growth. The land had collapsed,
but root systems seemed resistant even to the implosion of the
planet. He flitted quickly among the tangled growth and peered
ahead.

Siiiggg!--something fast cut the air near him. He dropped into

a dry streambed and strained to feel his way forward through his
sensorium. Hot smells rang through him.

He angled along a ridgeline and three more times the quick,
thin wail sliced the silence. Something was shooting at him, but
not well. A fourth bolt caught him slightly and he smelled a
cutting microwave pulse. It had the pungency to blow out the
inner structures he knew by the name Diode, but whose function
he did not fathom. He felt his own Diodes clamp down, sheltering
themselves.

Silence. Cautiously they popped open. His sensorium filled
with regained color and perspectives. He carefully edged up to
the ridge rim and used a lightpipe to steal a glance over it.

A lone mech was struggling up the opposite face of the ridge.
Deep scars marked its thick shell. Bolts had crisped away the
steel. Its angular design was unlike anything Killeen had seen on
Snowglade.

Without thinking he aimed at the mech and caught it full in


	TIDES OF LIGHT
	171


the forward antenna complex. It stopped for an instant. Killeen
could see no damage and he fired again. This time the mech
clearly blocked the shot. His electrobolt ricocheted off into a ruby
flare that momentarily lit the scene against the encroaching gloom
of twilight.

His Ling Aspect cried:


This is a totally unnecessary risk! Run while you can.


"Run long enough," Killeen grunted.

He dimly saw that he needed to strike out at something,
anything. Suddenly meeting a mech had brought out all his suppressed
anger.

He had seen sophisticated defenses like this before. Nothing in
Family Bishop's weaponry could penetrate it. The chunky mech's
treads caught on an outcropping. It swiveled, bringing projectors
on its side around to have a full field of fire at him.

Killeen ducked, knowing the fringing fields of a broadband
microwave burst could catch him even well below the ridgeline.
He hunkered down, gritting his teeth hard to tell his subsystems
to button up.

But nothing came. Not even a whisper.

He risked a glimpse. The mech had flipped over and was
burning. Through the curling black pyre he saw a cyborg approaching,
its body a complex set of coupled, interlocking hexagonal
blocks. Thick brown skin wrinkled and stretched as it made its
way up from a broken valley below. A shot had blown open the
mech. Its lateral carbosteel housing puckered outward into twisted
fingers, a clear sign that the cyborg had somehow triggered an
internal energy supply.

Killeen decided to lie low. This cyborg was probably part of a
team assigned to clear out any remaining pockets of mechs or
humans. If he ran it could easily catch him. His only hope lay in
the possibility that the cyborg had not registered his own small,
ineffectual fire.

He shut down all his systems again and moved to his right,
downslope, seeking more shelter from the rocky ridge. The burning
mech was so near that without acoustic amping he could easily
hear the crackling and then a loud bang as some vat exploded.
Standing still, panting, he thought he could hear the quiet approach
of the cyborg: a rustling, clicking cadence as carbosteel
limbs articulated.


	172
	Gregory Benford


The eyborg's noise grew against the pop and snarl of the
flames. It should have reached the mech by now. But the sounds
did not stop. Instead the steady rhythm seemed to move to his
left, skirting around the mech's pyre.

And slowing. It was coming around on him from above.

Killeen carefully backed farther downslope. The cyborg might
not know what was over here; it would be cautious.

Stealth was his only ally. He might be able to slip back over
the ridgeline as the cyborg crossed, keeping low so that his
opponent missed him. Then he would have a few moments to run.
He strained to hear the whispery sound of the cyborg's flexing
leathery hide.

There--it was clambering up over the last shelf of rock which
crowned the ridge. Softly he backed away. Time contracted for
him and he heard each cyborg step, each swivel and adjustment of
pads as they sought purchase on the steeply sloped stones.

The alien was near the top now. KiIleen could not tell how far
away it was. In the enormous silence, punctuated only by the
snapping of the mech's oily fire, his natural hearing seemed to
amplify each small sound into deep significance. Somewhere upslope
on the ridge a pebble rattled down. Killeen heard it before he saw
it bounce off a boulder and scatter fragments into the soil.

His eyes followed the pebble's probable trajectory back into a
saddleback where a shelf petered out. It had been a natural wash
once and he guessed that a steep streambed led down from there,
spreading out onto the other face of the ridge. Which implied that
the cyborg had paused at the top, maybe resting but more likely
just waiting, cautious, probing throughout the spectrum before it
exposed itself on the other side.

The saddleback was not far away. If he was right, the cyborg
was reconning the far slope. But he did not dare power up any of
his sensory net to check.

Killeen set himself and in one quick rush was up and over
the nearest jagged shelf. He rolled over the peak and down into a
wash of gravel. He came up on his feet, feeling bulky and awkward
without any of his inboard systems running. Sluggishly he ran
downhill, his joints aching, looking for shelter.

A glance back. The cyborg's tail antenna was disappearing
beyond the saddleback as it headed down the other side. But the
alien wouldn't take long to figure matters out.

Killeen ran pell-mell, stumbling on stones and nearly sprawling
more than once. There was no place to hide. The planetary


TIDES OF LIGHT


173


convulsions had brushed this slope free of large boulders and the
gullies were folded in, shallow. He searched for any minor cranny
in the ridgeline, but the few small caves had fallen in. He ran
completely past the burning mech before the idea struck him.

The mech lay blistered and broken now, shattered by internal
explosions. Flames began to gutter out. Thick, greasy smoke
licked the rocky slope.

Killeen chose a crimp in the hull just above the heavy tread
assembly. He looked back at the ridgeline. Something moved
there and he did not take the time to see what the cyborg was
doing. He flung himself into the stove-in section of the burning
mech carcass. He was caught immediately in a tangle of parts and
smelly goo.

Still no sign that the cyborg had seen him. Without his senso-rlure,
the usual mech attack modes--microwave, infrared saturation,
hyper-fichettes--would give him no sign unless they struck
him square on.

Cowering in the stinking jumble of the ruined mech, he felt a
slow rage building. He had been chased and hurt and mistreated
and he was damned if he was going to go out this way. He could
wait for the cyborg to go away--assuming it did not return to
harvest the mech for parts or scrap. But something made him peer
out, wanting the big thing to lumber into view, wanting at least
one clear shot at it. Ling barked in incredulous anger. Killeen instantly
slapped the Aspect down.

He listened intently but could pick up nothing this close to the
smoldering fires. He would have to expose himself to see what
was going on.

Now that he looked closely at the mech body, he recognized
housings and struts and assemblies like those he had yanked out of
destroyed mechs back on Snowglade. The outer skin had looked
odd, but apparently the same principles of basic design ruled
among all mechs at Galactic Center.

Carefully he inched out. Most mechs had visual detectors that
registered rapid movement, and the cyborg seemed at least as
sophisticated. He saw movement on the ridgeline. Coils of acrid
smoke stung his eyes, blurring his vision. He began to wonder if it
had been such a brilliant idea after all to hide here. All the cyborg
had to do was amble up and overturn the mech body and--

Without any warning the cyborg appeared in his field of view,
a watery image refracting through the pall of sour smoke. It
articulated deftly over the broken ground, antennae swiveling.


	174
	Gregory Benford


But it was not coming toward him. Instead it surged with startling
speed across the broad wash of the streambed. A parabolic dish
turned and Killeen felt a faint buzzing in his neck. Even with his
sensorium deadened, the chips he carried along his spine had
picked up the cyborg's burst.

Such a powerful pulse could not have been simply a eomm
signal. The cyborg was firing at something. Something that worried
it considerably, for it now scrambled forward, its double-jointed
limbs clashing with haste, its pads sometimes slipping on
the loosened topsoil.

Killeen bit his lip to try to restrain himself, but it was hopeless.
Long years of training, the recent humbling capture--these
combined to make him seize his narrow-bore rifle, the one inherited
from his father and his grandfather before that, and jack a
precious shell into it. He leaned against an aluminum strut and
aimed with luxuriously deliberate care at the forward comm housing
of the cyborg. He squeezed off the round. It struck the base of
a big spherical web antenna, shattering it. The cyborg lurched
visibly.

Killeen knew that ordinarily he would never have gotten such
an easy, unopposed shot. The cyborg must have been in serious
trouble before it lumbered into view. Which meant that something
was coming after it. More mechs. This cyborg had been
unlucky enough to meet overwhelming strength when it was
alone.

Killeen made himself tuck the rifle back into his side sling. He
had vented his rage, and already he felt a tug of regret. He had
felt odd moments of connection with the cyborg which had carried
him down from orbit and finally set him free. He owed that single
cyborg some gratitude, perhaps. But the outrage perpetrated upon
him had needed vengeance, by a law as old as humanity, and now
that need had been met.

He settled back into his cranny, hoping nothing had seen
where his one shot had come from. The cyborg scrambled on,
downslope. It was nearly out of sight before a ringing shot burst
beside it, spewing brown soil into the air. Killeen blinked. Mechs
seldom used ballistic weapons. They preferred cleaner, lighter,
more precise electromagnetic means.

Then a second shell struck the cyborg in its middle. That
apparently cut a prime mental function, for the long chunky body
convulsed, jerking in spasms of almost sexual frenzy.

The cyborg turned on its pursuers. There was a desperate,


	TIDES OF LIGHT
	175


abandoned look to the maneuver. Killeen sensed stubborn, fatalistic
defiance in the cyborg's movements. Its arms came up in a
clenched gesture, like six fists shaking in rage at once.

It fired everything it had at something out of view. But its
cause was hopeless. It lurched to the side and took another
massive blow. Smoke poured from it. Small rattling bursts struck
its natural, organic body, leaving shallow red craters in the rough
hide.

Without pleasure Killeen watched the thing die. The cyborgs
were, for all their uncaring brutality and deep strangeness, based
on natural beings, organically derived from the world. He had felt
some strange respect for the one which had spared him, cast him
onto this maimed planet. He was not happy to see one brought
down by mechs, even though he himself hfid been among the
killers.

The faint calling came to him as he thought this, and at first he
did not register it. Only when the small human figures came
running into view, waving their puny weapons in triumph, did he
understand.


THREE


The tent was worn and frayed and stained. Killeen wondered if
this was for camouflage, since it blended well into the jumbled
terrain.

All during the walk here his escort had said nothing beyond
curt orders. He had not been surprised that their thickly accented
speech was in his language; it had never occurred to him that
humans spoke more than one way.

They had led him through rambling encampments of tattered
tents and lean-tos of scrap and brush, past more people than he
had ever seen assembled. Even the Citadel had held fewer Bishops
than this. Flapping pennants with unfamiliar symbols suggested
that this was a full Tribe. No such grand meeting had
occurred on Snowglade within living memory.

A woman in gray coverails pulled back a tent flap and someone
poked Killeen in the buttocks. He walked in, taking long quick
strides to avoid another poke, and to maintain some shred of
dignity.

The tent seemed larger from inside, with a high peak lit by a
phosphorescent ivory ball. Oil lamps glowed along the tent's four
oblique diagonals, casting blades of yellow down onto the heads of
dozens of people. They were gathered at an orderly, respectful
distance from the man at the very center of the tent.

A black desk of polybind ceramic dominated the room. Killeen
wondered if these people had carried that heavy mass around with
them. It looked mechmade, smoothly curved and sculpted so that
its sharp arc focused the eye on the small man behind it, lounging
in a light metal chair.

The figure did not seem impressive enough to merit the fixed,
hushed attention of everyone else in the tent. He was short,
stocky, with hair as black as the ebony desk. A long gash of sullen
red ran from above his right temple down across the swarthy skin


	TIDES OF LIGHT
	177


to the hinge of his jaw. Something had nearly struck his eye, for
the mark burrowed into his heavy eyebrows.

About a dozen men and women flanked the desk like guards.
No one said anything. They were all watching the man eat a large
piece of green fruit. Juice ran down his chin and dripped onto a
white cloth set on his chest. The man's uniform was made of a
cool-blue, light, comfortable-looking fabric unlike any Killeen had
seen before. He smacked his lips. He was giving all his attention
to his eating and everyone else seemed to be, too.

The long silence continued. Killeen wondered if this show was
for his benefit and dismissed the thought when he saw the rapt
look on the faces around him. This was some sort of privileged,
special audience, unlike any meeting of a Cap'n and his Family
that Killeen knew. The man eating wore no signifying patch. The
people nearby had makeshift uniforms of rough cloth, with insignia
vaguely similar to the house emblems of Snowglade. Their
faces, though seeming dazed, bore a certain intense look of
authority. Some wore small medals of tarnished, ropelike silver.
Could these be the Cap'ns of the legions he had seen outside?

Finally the small man sucked on his snaggly teeth, smacked his
lips, and tossed the remnant core of the fruit over his shoulder.

As someone moved to pick it up the man leaned back and
stretched, yawning, still not looking at anyone in particular. Then
he seemed to notice Killeen and regarded him with unreadable

blank eyes. "Well?" the man said.
"I, my name is--"
"Knees!" the man shouted.
Killeen blinked. "What? I--"

Someone hit Killeen hard yet neatly across the backs of his
knees, knocking his support away so he dropped forward and hit

the floor, barely managing to stay on his knees.

"Signify!" a voice whispered near him.

"I come from Family Bishop. I honor these lands of, of..."
Killeen had begun the old greeting in hopes that some idea would
come to him, but now he needed to insert the name of this Family.

"Treys!" the whisper said.


·
	. . Treys, seeking help in a time of dire need, against the

depredations and torments inflicted by our mutual--"
"Bindings!" the man behind the desk shouted.

Instantly hands grabbed Killeen's arms and swiftly tied them
behind him. He let them without protest, because of something
he glimpsed in the man's eyes as the orders were given. The

176


	178
	Gregory Benford


empty eyes had suddenly jerked with animated fire, a spasm of
wrenching pleasure.

The man stood up. Honorific pendants swayed from a broad

scarlet belt that neatly bisected his blue suit. "He is disarmed?"
A whisper answered, "Aye, Your Supremacy."
"He understands his position in our cause?"

The whisperer near Killeen hesitated, then said, "He is a
Cap'n, Your Supremacy, so we did not feel qualified to instruct
him."

Evidently this transparent attempt to shift responsibility worked,
for the swarthy man nodded calmly and spread his hands toward
Killeen, as if addressing a problem. "I must attend to this myself,

then." Abruptly he frowned at Killeen. "Your Family?"
"Bishop."
"No such."

"We're not from this planet."

"Never heard such."

"We came here searching for refuge from the mechs."
"Ha! You chose well. Here we have vanquished them."
"So I see."

"You see only that which I determine," the short man said

reasonably. "You will understand that."

"I, ah---"

"It is the devil Cybers we fight now. They too shall yield to

our bravery and ardor and spirits of fire."

"Cybers?"

His Supremacy nodded, eyes empty again. Lips pursed, expression
expectant, he seemed to be listening to some distant
voice. Then his attention returned and the muscles of his face
stretched his olive skin so that it gleamed beneath the cone of
phosphorescent radiance that cascaded around him. The brilliant
ball directly above cast a pearly circle on the floor, with the
swarthy man as its center. The crowd kept its distance, venturing
only as far as the softer glow of the oil lamps intruded into the
hard, white circle.

He continued abruptly, as though there had been no pause.
"They cut the lands with their great sword. Just as victory came to
us, as the mechs fled before our assaults, these giant things fell
upon us from the sky. Our triumph was denied. But we shall
conquer!"

This provoked loud shouts of agreement from everyone in the
tent.


TIDES OF LIGHT


179


The man looked expectantly at Killeen. "This action is, of
course, a tribute to my immortal nature. They send against me the
very worst that the evil-hinged skies can muster."

His eyes left Killeen and shot around the room, moving intently
from face to face beneath the oily yellow glow. His lips
bulged out as if barely containing a vast pressure.

"They compliment us! By sending their most awful and powerful,
now that the mechs are rabble scurrying to escape our bootheels.
They do us honor[ And they shall die."

Abruptly he deflected his glowering, building rage down to
where Killeen knelt, and in a long sigh the rage evaporated. In a
blink his eyes regained their neutral emptiness.

He said mildly, "And I am glad that you have come to aid in
my time of need."

Killeen said carefully, "I am alone now, sir. My--"
"Supremacy!" a hard whisper in his ear urged.
"I am alone, Supremacy, my Family--"

"The Bishops, you called them?" the short man said judicially.
"Yeasay, they--"

"I had thought they were lying. I had never heard of any such

Family, and fancied them wastrel renegade Deuces or Trumps."
Killeen asked excitedly, "Bishops? Here?"

"You understand, a mind focused on the defense of our race
cannot but leave details to others. I reserve my time for commu-

nion with the spirit that moves over and within and through us."
"They're here, Supremacy?"

The heavy, dark eyebrows arched in an expression of bemused
interest. "We found them wandering. They had a story
about landing in mech craft and escaping the Cyber air raids that
we had seen the day before. I thought this a mere fashioned lie.
Now that you appear--a Cap'n, I judge from your insignia--this
explains it."

"How many?"

The man's face froze and Killeen realized that he had made
some error. What could it be? Was his question too direct? The
complete silence of everyone around him suggested that he could
amend his mistake ....

"Your Supremacy, ! beg you--yield to me the number who
have lived."

His Supremacy's mouth lost some of its tightness and he
flicked a glance at a woman to his left.

"Over a hundred," came the reply.


	180
	Gregory Benford

Killeen's breath caught. Most of the Bishops had gotten out.
"I shall cause them to be released," His Supremacy said grandly,
his arms making a sweeping gesture. Everyone in the tent cheered,
as though this were some unique act, as though this man who
called himself by a ridiculous title had somehow saved the Bishops'
lives.

The swarthy man's face knitted into a reflective cast, his eyes
wandering up to the peak of the tent. "I had judged them as
scabrous cowards, laggards from destroyed Suits in the Families.
As such, they were unworthy of any role in our grand assaults to
come, and so would be used for labor. Fighting within our invincible
Tribe is an honor not lightly dispensed. You understand, I am

sure."

"Uh, yeasay."

The eyebrows met in a scowl.

"Yeasay, Your Supremacy."

The eyebrows parted and the face relaxed, the eyes again
sliding into blankness. "Now they may take part in the heroic
struggles to come. I expect you to assume command of them
again, as Cap'n."

"Yeasay, Supremacy, as soon--"

"And sacrifices will be exacted."

Killeen looked at the man but could not read his meaning.
His Supremacy gestured and someone unbound Killeen's arms.
Should he get up? Something in the way the short man stood,
hands on hips and legs stiff, told him to remain kneeling.

His Supremacy pursed his lips, eyes wandering again. He said
distantly, "I understand, in my all-reaching facets, your confusion.
You have voyaged here from some other sphere of human action,
and that was as I wished. You moved in response to my injunctions,
though ignorant and in darkness. I was the unseen force
which drew you across the night canyons that separate the worlds.
I desired it and sent my emanations to guide you."

A murmur greeted this speech. Hushed exclamations of awe
filled the tent.

"Now you enter onto the full stage of human destiny."

This speech had the ringing quality of a set piece. "Ah,
yeasay... Supremacy.

"I am the given. You have in this conversation verged on
disrespect toward me." The eyebrows knotted. "Mayhappen this
arises from ignorance. If so, now it is just and proper that I reveal
to you my deepest nature."


	TIDES OF LIGHT
	181


Killeen said guardedly, "Yeasay." The tent rustled with anticipation.
Someone damped the lamps and shadows crowded the
tent further. A hushed expectation rustled among the men and

women like a sudden wind.

"Witness!"

The short man extended his arms and abruptly his entire body
shimmered and glowed. Against the blue fabric a yellow skeleton
appeared, like a second entity that lived inside the man. It moved
with him, bones and ribs and pelvic girdle performing their rubs
and rotations as His Supremacy stepped first to one side, then to
another. Atop the curved spine a death's-head grinned, turning
proudly. The bones worked smoothly, suggesting that a creature
made of the pure, radiating hardness could walk and know the
world, encased in its enduring strengths. It oozed ample light into
the tent, cutting a blackness as deep as that in the unblemished
spaces between stars. In these dim working shadows, with breezes
flapping the tent like far-off thunderclaps, the intricate lattice of
crisp light implied an interior race of invulnerable beings, harder
than human.

Its burnt-yellow jaw pulsed on an unseen hinge as His Supremacy
said, "! am the essence of humanity itself, come to
avenge and save. Through me human destiny will be made manifest.
The mechs and Cybers shall be vanquished alike."

In the thick, shadowy air his skeleton vibrated with life.
Vagrant hues shot through the bones as they articulated, knotty
joints swooping with artful animation in the framing dark.

"Mortal?" he cried. "No. Mortality lies within me and yet I
am not mortal. I am the manifestation! God Himselfl"

Killeen gathered that this teehtrick was supposed to impress
him. He let an expression of amazement settle onto his face while
he tried to see how the moving rib cage and legs were imaged on
the blue.

"I am the immanent spirit of humanity, as given by Divine
God! In this most dire and yet pregnant hour of mankind, the
glorious truth is that I have been endowed with godliness entire.
No longer does God act through me. He has become me. I am
God! This is why the Tribe will follow me to its certain destiny.
This is why you, Cap'n of the lost Bishops, will give your final
effort to my cause, the cause of humanity's true God!"


FOUR


The human sprawl down the valley was broad and impressive.
Two women escorted Killeen through the knots of Family gatherings.
They were both Cap'ns but Killeen asked them nothing.

He had allowed himself to be led into this massive encampment
because the men and women who had found him insisted. But
every sense in him shouted Caution.t These people were grim,
silent, and the interview with His Supremacy had unsettled Kil-leen
considerably. He remembered his father's wry advice: "Thing
about aliens is, they're alien." That might apply to this distant
vestige of humanity, too.

Twilight cast slanted sulfurous rays across the wracked land,
picking out details for fleeting amber moments.

A wheezing old man passed, dragging a carryframe that dug
deep ruts in the soil. Young couples held hands around smoky
campfires, squatting together with their small babies. Beside a
spitting orange lamp, a dumpy matron made an outraged face as
she haggled with a trader over a plastic sack of grain. Children
scampered among lean-tos, aiming and firing at one another with
sticks and calling Family battlecries in hoarse, excited voices. Men
sat solemnly checking and oiling weapons, the shiny parts carefully
arranged on worn dropcloths, their scarred stocks held between
bulging, augmented knees. A young woman leaned against
a commandeered mech transporter, idly playing a lightly liquid
tune on a small harp. She kept her boots and calf sheaths on,
pneumatic collars gleaming and tight at her ankles, plainly still on
ready-guard. But the music lilted on the tumbling breeze, promising
a lightness nowhere to be seen.

Here and there were rickety huts and stalls made of poles and
canvas. Greasy fires inside them splashed ruddy light against the
thin walls, amplifying every inner movement into pantomime
shadow dramas. Crowds clustered around the brimming flames
and in their faces Killeen read not the exhaustion he had ex-

182


	TIDES OF LIGHT
	183


pected, but a firm, silent, unassuming strength. They worked at
their techcrafts, using the last glow of available light.

Gangs unloaded mech carriers. There was a whole fleet of
mech autotrucks as xvell. He was impressed at their high level of
scavenging; this surpassed anything he had seen on Snowglade.
Everywhere there were mech implements and a wealth of spare
pats.

Killeen asked for Family names and his escorts called them out
as they passed campsites: Treys, Deuces, Double-Noughts, Niners,
Septs, Five-ohs, Jacks, Aces. As they approached each group a
guard hailed and they replied with code words.

There was a plan to the camps, which he at first had thought
just a random conglomeration. Each Family was deployed in a
pie-shaped wedge, its long-range weapons facing outward to command
a fraction of the perimeter. He passed a wide wedge of
Family Niner, clustered beneath an array that poked 1ong-snouted
rods skyward.

"Skybolts," one of his escorts replied to his question. She
snifiqed with a cold and her eyes were swollen. "Can knock down
mechs."

"How?"

"Electromagnetic."

"What band? Microwave? IR?"

Her sunburned face tightened with suspicion. "Family business."
"You a Niner?"

"Naysay. Families keep their tech stuff to selves, though."
"Your Family does?"

"Sure. I'm Cap'n of the Sebens. Believe me, we got reasons."
"Like?" Killeen persisted.

"Old ways, from back in the days when the Families didn't
have so much trouble from mechs."

"I thought we were all united under the Supremacy."

"His Supremacy."

"Yeasay, yeasay. Look, how the Sebens fit in w'all the other
Families? I can't follow all the Family names and--"

"Old sayin', Seben Come Elebben. Only there aren't many
Elebbens left now. Mechs cut 'em up somethin' awful. What was
left the Cybers pretty well mashed."

The woman's voice was like gravel poured down a pipe. Kil-leen
could hear the edge of authority in it that Fanny had possessed.
He said carefully, "Still, we united, why not share tech?"

"Won't be secret then."


	184
	Gregory Benford


"It'd help if we knew each other's weapons."

"Howcome?"

"Things get tight, more'n one Family can use 'cm."

The woman shook her head. "You don't keep a craft to yourself,
you lose it."

"But--" The woman's exasperated shake of her head told Kil-leen
this was useless territory to explore. He changed tack and
said casually, "Must be hard, carryin' 'quipment big as all that

'round on your backs."

"Seen worse."

"Okay for holdin' someplace, like a Citadel, but--"

"Your people had a Citadel?"

This was the first sign of interest in his origins anyone had
shown. Killeen wondered how concerned he would have been
when he was running from mechs on Snowglade; probably not
much. "Yeasay, a great one. Good air defenses."

"We kept some our big weapons. Held off the mechs long
enough, so's we could break 'em down, pack out the parts on
carryslings."

Killeen could guess the price paid in such a holding action,
caught in the wild, unreckonable swirl of battle, crossed by deviant
slants of deadly fortune. He said respectfully, "That stuff must
slow you down when you hit and move, though."

"That's true 'gainst mechs. Up 'gainst Cybers, though, you

better have the heavy stuff or they'll squash you. Cybers're harder."
"Howcome?"

"They can read your tech straight out. Feel a ticklin' in your
head and then it's gone."

"You mean invade your sensorium, take your knowhow? But
that'd kill you."

"Don't hafta." She hawked roughly and spat a brown wad a
hand's length in front of her right boot, all without breaking
stride.

Killeen said, "Where I come from, mech bothers to do all that
much, it just kills you suredead long as it's taken the trouble."

She nodded and coughed. Fifteen men came struggling up the
path carrying a piece of mechtech that Killeen could not identify
and the three of them stepped aside to let the party pass.

She said, "I 'member when mechs did that. But they stopped
when we started gettin' the better of 'cm."

"His Supremacy says you had 'em beat."

Grudgingly she said, "For a while."


	TIDES OF LIGHT
	185


"How?"

"We cooperated a lfl with some mech cities. Helped 'era take
out their competition."

Killeen was puzzled. "Other mechs?"

"Yeasay. His Supremacy worked it out with 'cm."

"Where I come from, we had some Families try that. Dangerous,
though. The deals never lasted long."

"Ours did. We'd smuggle stuff onto mech carriers. See, one
mech city would give us fake supplies. Made up so looked like
real thing. We'd slip in, get it onto a convoy headed from the
outside fact'ries into the big cities."

"Impressive," Killeen said respectfully. "How?"

"Wear no metal. Crawl through the convoy's detectors real

slow."

"Sounds pretty slick."

"Was. Kept us alive."

Killeen said, "His Supremacy did all that?"

"Yeasay. Started out cuttin' a deal for just his Family. Mechs
they'd work for would give 'era protection. Once we seen how it
went, whole Tribe was his for the askin'."

"I saw some mech cities pretty well done in."

"We did that. We'd smuggle in bombs, plant 'em."
"Dangerous work."

"With mech help we could get through the traps."

"We never learned that," Killeen said, hoping to keep drawing
her out.

"Easy, once you know. We'd grab fancy stuff, 'quipment. Wish
it'd gone on like that."

"What happened?"

"All sudden, no mechs aroun'. Least not many. Seemed like
most were up in orbit. We'd see 'em at night .... "

"Maybe they had more important business. Cybers."
"We figured."
"When was that?"

"A while back, maybe two seasons--not that we had a decent
summer, not with the clouds coverin' the sun most times."

"And you skragged the mechs good," Killeen prompted her.
She kept looking alertly around, a habit Killeen knew never left
you after you had spent years running in the open.

"His Supremacy, he said this was our big chance. We raided
mech cities ourselves. Knew the tricks, see."

"Ah," Killeen said appreciatively.


	186
	Gregory Benford

"Hit 'em hard. Just when we're seein' our way clear, there
comes five nights when there's big lightballs goin' off up there"-she
gestured with a gnarled hand skyward--"and thunder comes
down sometimes. All over the sky, loud as you please."

They were passing a large roaring bonfire with hundreds of
people packed around it. Killeen could feel the heat snapping off
the flames. A low moaning song rose in the surrounding murk as
the last traces of twilight ebbed. It was unfamiliar and yet carried
a mournful bass solemnity that reminded him of the Citadel, long
ago, and Family songs unheard for many years.

The Sebens' Cap'n walking beside him made a gesture, eross-ing
from shoulder to hip, through the belly and back to the
opposite shoulder, evidently a sign of respect. The crowd blocked
the path and they stopped.

She whispered, "So then after that we don't see meehs much
anymore. But Cybers we get plenty."

"You ever see Cybers before these times?"

"Naysay. Family Jack say they fought some Cybers long 'fore
this, but my man Alpher says Jacks, they're always yarnin' on
'bout things they dunno ass-up 'bout. And he's right." A closed
look came into her face. "Not that I'm sayin' anything 'gainst
another Family united under the Supremacy, you understand."

Killeen nodded."So the Cybers beat the meehs, you figure?"
"Looks like."

Killeen considered telling her about his experience in the Gyber
nest and decided he hadn't sorted it out enough himself to make
good sense. Instead he started working his way around the close-packed
crowd. They were singing their slow song more rhythmically
now, punctuating it with unnerving shrill wails that made his
scalp prickle. All faces turned toward the crackling flames, eyes
unfoeused and tear-filled. Killeen sensed the gravity of this Family
ritual but it was unlike any he knew. A large red insignia on a
man's shoulder told him they were Eight of Hearts.

The three of them circled around and reached the rutted path
just as a small cart emerged from the gathering amber dusk,
drawn by six women. Killeen stepped aside for them to pass and
at that moment the crows saw the cart and a collective sigh rose.
Twisted, anguished eries filled the gloom,

An honor guard flanked the cart, weapons at port arms. People
swarmed around, pressing Killeen against the cart. He saw
three bodies arranged formally on the flatbed, their arms at their
sides. Each stared open-eyed at the night above, faces unlined


	TIDES OF LIGHT
	187


and dispassionate above bodies that belied their calm. Two were
women--scrawny, their skins puckered and lacerated. And each
bore a massive bruise that spread down from her prominent collarbone
to her belly.

But it was not truly a bruise, he saw. The purpling had spread
up into the women's breasts, pushing up ridges of yellowing flesh.
The edge of the wound was crinkled and warped, as though
something inside had tried to escape by prying off the chest of
each woman, and finally had failed, and so was still lurking within
them, the pressure of it forcing the ribs apart and making of their
bellies and lungs a great swollen blister that peaked in a watery,
transparent sac.

The male corpse between them lay face down, ragged hair
covering his head entirely. A bulge split the back of his uniform.
Another glossy, stretched dome. His was ringed by a crusted
brown scab like dried mud.

The three were laid close together, just fitting into the width
of the cart, so that the bodies could not roll and burst the tight,
shiny, grotesquely bloated wounds.

Killeen felt his mouth water with incipient nausea. He turned
away, sucking the air through his teeth to take away the sudden
foul taste that came through the air like a slap. Pushing out against
the press of bodies, looking directly into the eyes that stared past
him without seeing, he made his way back to the path. The two
women were waiting. He whispered, "What... what caused..."

"Cybers," the talkative woman said. "They do that sometimes,

when they can get in close."

"But... what..."

"Infested, that's what those people are. His Supremacy says

they must be cleaned, purified. Dealt with right."

"Let's... let's go."

She shook her head, the coils of her black hair wrestling like
living ropes. "We leave now, it'd be disrespec'ful."

Bodies pressed against him, their mute momentum carrying
him toward the bonfire. In the wake of the cart the slow grave
swell of the Eight of Hearts' mourning song rose. He watched as
gloved hands drew the dirty, stiffening bodies from the cart. The
corpses were laid out gently, the man still in the center and face
down, and a single red heart made of cloth laid upon the head of
each. Then a tall woman wearing a Cap'n's signifiers spoke, her
voice well modulated and practiced and strong.

Killeen did not follow the words. He was watching the bodies.


	188
	Gregory Benford


As the corpses stiflened further their legs and arms jerked and
trembled slightly, as though the rhythms that defined a Family's
way--running, the endless succession of nomad flight---carried on
remorselessly across the divide of death.

Then the Cap'n approached the first woman, made a ritual
pass with a long knife, and plunged it hard and sure into the glassy
blister. The shiny dome broke with an audible pop. Milky fluids
gushed all down it, over the corpse's face, running into the open
rictus, covering the still-staring eyes, trickling down over the legs.
There seemed an impossible quantity of the stuff and when it
drained away the yawning husk of the blister cracked and broke
under the Cap'n's repeated thrusts.

She probed deeper. The point of the knife burrowed in and
abruptly the body shook within, shuddering with a wet sucking
noise. Something struggled inside, rocking the body from side to
side, jerking, pushing the broken ribs farther out. A spasm, a last
convulsion, and then the body went completely still. Snapped ribs
collapsed inward.

The dead woman looked shrunken, emptied. In final rest her
face now resembled those of her Family hemming in the spectacle,
a blade of a nose between prominent cheekbones. Her eyes
seemed to sink beneath the darkened lids. A tiny insect crawled
out of one nostril and lingered on a bloodless lip.

The Cap'n pulled out her blade. Pinned on its sharp point was
a thing hard and brown and chitinous that still wriggled with
frantic energy. It was tough but somehow unformed, as though
legs and head had still to push their way out of the moist, interlocking
brown segments. It fought the knife, twisting. Then suddenly
the life drained out of it and the thing went limp.

The crowd backed away. The Cap'n threw the brown mass to
the ground. Instantly a woman leaped forward and crushed it with
both boots. She cried out something Killeen could not understand,
a shout of anger and sorrow and despair. Then she backed
into the crowd again. Men and women nearby clasped her, passing
her among them, hugging and sheltering her with soft
murmurings.

The Cap'n did the second woman the same way. Killeen
watched numbly. This time a man crushed the brown thing. It
snapped like the joints of a hand being crushed. The man sobbed
as he did it and stamped the thing again and again before going
back into the crowd.

The blister on the man's back was larger than the women's.


TIDIES OF LIGHT


189


The bulge was thinning, growing translucent. In tiny movements
the skin pulsed--a convexity here, a concavity there, until the
whole back and chest of the man was alive with purpose. The
trunk of the body was unrecognizable now, save for the parentheses
of ribs that yawned aside to frame the quaking fleshy hill that
rose and throbbed.

The Cap'n of the Eight of Hearts quickly brought her blade
up, calling out some ritual words. Before she could plunge it into
the man's back the blister began to split. Milky ooze gushed out.
Dark cracks ran down from the summit.

Something crabbed and small pushed itself out into the flickering
firelight. It scuttled away. The Cap'n did not hesitate. She
slammed the knife into the thing as it ran down the corpse's leg.
Small legs fought and scraped their way up the blade. But the
knife made its point.

A collective sigh rose from the crowd. The three bodies were
flaccid and spent now. Their nearest relatives--for all present
were related, however distantly---came forward to accept the honor
of burial.

Killeen made his way on wooden legs away from the roaring,
snapping bonfire. Regaining the path, he said hoarsely to the
Sebens' Cap'n, "That's what the Cybers do? Plant their, their
seeds in us? They don't even let us die straight and clean?"

The sunburned woman answered, "Yeasay. Only those lfl

things, they're not Cybers."

"What, then?"

"Some kinda lfl scrabblers. I seen 'em doin' small jobs, followin'
Cybers. Sometimes climb up on Cybers, pick at their joints 'n'
stuff."

"Like fleas?"

"I'd guess."

Killeen said disbelievingly, "Just use us for hatching out fleas."

"They leave us lyin', few hours later out comes those things.

Or they'll kill clean from the distance, if they ain't got the time."
"What they use mechs for?"
"Dunno. Parts, maybe."

Killeen sucked at his lip to hide his queasiness. The woman
said, "Cybers're worse 'n mechs, plenty worse."

The woman who had said nothing until now put in bitterly,
"Damn sure, but we'll triumph. 'S God's way, givin' us a trial."

They moved on through gathering murk lit by oily fires. Above
them the sky yawned and flexed.


FIVE


TO Killeen the look on Jocelyn's face was abruptly, immensely
funny. She gaped, eyes and mouth making big round Os.

They embraced, then, and the other Bishops squatting near a
small sheltered fire leaped up loudly and were all around him.

Cermo slapped him on the rear and hugged him and the rest
went by in a heady, quick, intense blur. Faces and laughter
released into the cooling night air a fervent joy as word spread and
shouts went up and answering calls sounded among the converging
forms that sprang up from nearby campfires and came running,
voices raised in excited and disbelieving celebration. Then Toby was
there, his face haggard and gray even in the warming glow of the
crackling flames--which someone had already augmented, summoning
forth a welcoming rush of heat and crisp radiancc -and Killeen
lifted his son into the air, swinging him around in a sudden hard
blossom of feeling, finding the boy's hefty weight surprising.

"What, why, how--?" the voices asked, but Killeen shook his
head, his throat filled and his world blurred. Toby needed no
explanations, just yelped and laughed the way he had in years
past, before the protracting processes of coming to age had caught
him up. Killeen laughed wildly and turned to see more--glorious
clumps of Bishops, a flood where he had only hoped for a trickle--all
rushing in, crossing the last faint blades of dusk. His throat
hurt, to feel himself again at the center of all he truly cared
about---centrfugaflY spun out into the Family that in turn came
streaming inward from the darkness to enclose him. Questions
bombarded him and seemed to be not separate ideas but merely
the means that the Family used to draw him again back into itself.
And then in the brimming firelight, cutting through the mad talk
and shouts, he saw her. Hanging back, hands clasped behind her
so that they could not betray her emotions, eyes batting furiously
as she reflexively contained herself, mouth warped by inner anguish,
eyes moist and plaintively wide, Shibo.

190


	TIDES OF LIGHT
	191


She did not plague him with questions, as the others did.
Shibo invoked a time-honored Bishop custom, whereby a woman
may withdraw her man from Family matters if he is wounded or
distraught. Never had Killeen heard of such privilege used for a
Cap'n, but he raised no objections. He let Shibo guide him to a
boxy tent of odd design, and there seemed to fall into a musky
warm pit.

He ached everywhere. The fear and anguish he had suppressed
were lodged in tight muscle complexes, gnarled deposits
in his sensorium like granite nuggets in a bed of sand. Each stored
increment awaited only a release of control in order to speak its
pain. Shibo said little, simply began singing a high, drifting song
of ancient deeds, as his clothes slid from him and a tracery of
warmth crept across his filthy skin. She applied the heavy scented
oils and scraped them away with a honed stone blade. His skin
shrieked at the cleansing and then simmered into a tingling glow.

She moved over him, gauzy and ghostly and light, and seemed
to pluck words out of his throat, so that the story seeped from him
involuntarily, oozing through his skin as it answered her hands.
His sensorium trembled and snagged on her moist breath, on the
quickness of her. He could feel her own despair and bleak days,
lacing the air between them and merging with their desire. They
were together in a new place, a zone they had never penetrated
before because for years now life between them had been mild
and calm and incapable of reaching deeply in. They pressed,
pressed. Sank into each other, bone into bone. Killeen felt angered
by the stubborn flesh that resisted with its mulish weight
their blending; he wrestled with the sheer lazy obdurance of their
bodies. Shibo bit and pulled and strained and they became thin
wedges driven into each other. Their bodies were left behind.
Together they glided in sailing, recessional spaces.

There was a long interval without a tick of time.

Then, casually, Killeen heard a distant muttered conversation.
The ringing clatter of someone fumbling with metal. Crackling of
fires. Children's weary giggles.

The world had started up again.

"Ah," Shibo said, eyes heavy-lidded. "Here."

They lay together in each other's arms and laughed. Killeen
felt a whisper of ache in his lower back and knew he had not
banished all the past, never would.


	192
	Gregory Benford

They had come back from the silent spaces. A blank and yet
expectant pressure came upon him.

Facts, facts, yes. Always the blunt mass of facts.

They were stranded in a ruined land, besieged by two breeds of
hostility. The Family dwelled in the close embrace of a strange
strain of humanity.

His plans for New Bishop were dashed forever. Escape seemed
the only solution, yet--if he understood the mottled, warping
time he had spent in the bowels of the alien--the Argo was
captured, lost.

Killeen curled up against Shibo and let himself seep into the
musk of her, seeking a moment more of forgetting.


SIX


Plips and plops of rain dampened his spirits. Pale morning cut
through a mass of purple cloud. Killeen huddled under a lean-to,
sheltered by a tarp that flapped in a cold wind that seemed to be
racing to catch the storm front.

"Looks like clearing," he said to Jocelyn, who squatted nearby.
She surveyed the low, jumbled valley where dozens of breakfast
fires sent threads of smoke slanting up the sky, blown by the
wind. "Hope so. I'd hate running in this mud."

"I been thinkin' the same. How come they camp like this, a
whole Tribe rubbin' elbows?"

"His Supremacy says so." Her face was blank, eyes giving
nothing away.

He bit into a grain bar. There were weevils in it. Well, there
had been weevils in the Argo, too; pests were eternal. But here
humans themselves were pests.

"Mechs'd smash this place," he said, "if they knew they'd
catch so many."

"Near as I can tell, mechs don't matter. They've got 'nuff
trouble with Cybers," Jocelyn said.

"Okay, how 'bout the Cybers? Those campfires last night give

us away. Howcome they don't hit a big crowd like this?"
"Not their style."
"Who says?"

"His Supremacy."

"And what's he? He put on a show last night, was all I could
manage keepin' a straight face."

Jocelyn's brow creased with a disapproving frown. "Don't make
even small fun."

"Everybody crazy as he is?"

"Come look."

Killeen didn't feel like creaking over the muddy terrain but
something in Jocelyn's voice made him follow. He felt every joint


193


	194
	Gregory Benford


and servo like heavy damp wedges moving in his legs. He had run
a fair distance yesterday, and hiked some of the night with the
party that brought him in. Along with the crew he had exercised
in the g-decks of Argo to keep muscle fiber. Optimistically, he had
expected that the lesser gravity of this world would help. Not so.
The rain brought a special dull ache into his calves and lower
back, making him hobble around all tight and gimpy, hunching
over the way old men did. He was mulling this over as he grunted
up a steep hogback ridge behind Jocelyn, and wasn't ready for
what he saw on the other side.

A large steel girder was stuck into the ground so that it stood
nearly upright. A woman was tied to it, head down. Her purple
tongue stuck out between clenched teeth and her eyes protruded.
"Ah, ah, pl-please . , ." she croaked.

Killeen stepped toward her, unsheathing his knife.

"No." Jocelyn put a restraining hand on his shoulder. "Touch

her and you'll be in trouble. We'll all be."

"Ah, please . . . hands . . . God..."

Killeen saw that the woman's hands were swollen and blue
where wire tied them to the girder. At her ankles wire cut into
grossly large feet, dark with congested blood. "I can't let--"

"We've all kept clear. His Supremacy says anyone who helps

them gets the same." Jocelyn's voice was careful, controlled.
"Why's she up there?"

"She's an 'unbeliever,' as they put it around here."

"An unbeliever in what?"

"In His Supremacy. And their inevitable victory, ! guess."
"This is . . ." Killeen's voice trailed off as he looked beyond
the woman's pleading, reddened face. In the narrow gully three
more girders had been jammed into the soil and kept nearly
upright with stones. Each held an upside-down body. He remembered
suddenly the "art" that the Mantis had displayed years ago.
Human artworks. These crude monuments to human evil had a
strangely similar quality.

He took a few steps toward them before he saw the cloud of
insects that whispered and buzzed around each. He approached
the nearest on wooden legs, scarcely believing the sight of hundreds
of mites swarming over the inverted body. They buzzed
angrily as he came near and stooped to see the congested, blood-black
face.

"This is Anedlos]" Killeen cried,


TIDES OF LIGHT


195


Jocelyn tugged him away. "Don't look. They put him up days
ago. Yes'day he died. Other two are Tribe--from Card Suit."

Stunned, Killeen stammered, "Anedlos--Anedlos was a good
crafter. He... he..."

"He wouldn't take part in their religious service. He argued
with His Supremacy."

"And for that--" Killeen made himself stop, try to think.
"What did you do?"

"His Supremacy? I pleaded, but--"

"Pleaded? That's all?"

"What could I do?" Jocelyn asked defiantly.

"Tell that maniac that nobody hands out justice in Family
Bishop 'cept Family Bishop."

"That's... that's not the way things work here."

"No decision by the Tribe can set aside a Family's justice, you
know that."

Jocelyn spread her hands in a gesture of futility. "Old rules
don't work here. His Supremacy says he's God's embodiment and

what he says is law."

"He's crazy."

"Yeasay, but he has many, many Families who think he's God."
"Killing mechs doesn't make you God."

Jocelyn shrugged. "These Families, they always had Gods and
stuff. His Supremacy pulled it all together some way."

Killeen remembered the Nialdi Aspect he had carried years
before, an ardently religious man. Nialdi was never any real use,
though the Aspect had given guidance to Cap'ns down through
the ages. As soon as he became Cap'n, with power over Aspect
assignments, he had put Nialdi in chipstore.


Religious fervor... typically arises in times... of unsettling
change. End of the Chandelier Epoch saw... much
ardor... Nialdi . . . came from... shortly after...
seems likely His Supremacy carries . . . several such personalities
. . . and may give him . . . charismatic power
··· over the Tribe...


His Grey Aspect whispered weakly. Killeen saw her point. Nialdi
applied the apparent truths of that time to the present. His
Supremacy was doing the same. Maybe the trick of hiring his
people out to mech cities had given the man enough power to let
the underlying powerful Aspects come into play.


	196
	Gregory Benford


Killeen said, "Still, we can't let--"

"Look," she said heatedly, "I been tryin' ever'thing. His Supremacy
put me in charge since we thought you were dead. It's all
I can do, just getting food. We were pretty bad off when we
landed. These people took us in. We're lucky--"

"Crazy man will do you in bad, you follow him," Killeen said,
exasperated.

He stalked back to the woman, unsheathing a tool to unwind
the wires. They were hard to free because the wire had cut deeply
into her wrists. Before he was through he saw that blood was
running out of her mouth, spattering the gray mud and mingling
with the spitting rain that came blowing into the gully. She was
dead.

Back in the Bishops' camp he assembled Cermo and Joeelyn
and Shibo and questioned them closely. He started with the
escape.

Shibo had led the flight from the station. She had even reactivated
the Flitter where Joeelyn was hiding. The Cybers who
captured Killeen had ignored the eraft. As soon as they moved
away and lifted their control of it, Shibo had commanded it to join
the dispersed Flitter fleet that carried the Family.

They had been very lucky. When the cosmic string stopped
spinning Shibo saw their chance. Her deft handling of the shuttles'
microminds had brought them on a steep dive into the
atmosphere. One shuttlecraft had come apart with four Bishops
aboard. She guided them to a rough landing a day's hardmarch
from here. They had come down at night. The watch here had
sent a runner to see who they were.

"Thing is, who're they?" Killeen asked.

"Tribe of Cards. They've got pasteboards they play games
with, got their Family names on 'em," Cermo said. His face was
drawn and crusted with beard.

"Urn. Seems funny, makin' Family from some game," Killeen
said. "But they're all we got here."

Shibo said, "A Niner told me our Families come from a
game."

Killeen snorted in disbelief. "Bishops 'n' Kings 'n' Rooks?"

Shibo shrugged. Cermo said, "I bet they made that up. Just
'cause we thought was funny they're named for lfl cards."

Killeen said thoughtfully, "We got lot in common though.
Tribes, Families, even same rules."

Shibo said, "Must've come from same place."


TIDES OF LIGHT


197


Jocelyn nodded. "His Supremacy says we're all from same
Chandelier."

Cermo asked, "How's he know?"

"His Aspects," Jocelyn said. "I bet Aspects kept us all 'bout
the same. Rules and such--Aspects're big on those."

"And talk," Killeen said. "Aspects always nag about speakin'."

Shibo said, "That might explain why we can still understand
these Cards."

"Makes sense," Jocelyn said. "Our language changes, we couldn't

understand our Aspects. Or trade 'era with these Cards."
Killeen said carefully, "Who says we'd do that?"
"His Supremacy," she answered.
"Why?"

"Pool our tech."

Killeen said, "The Sebens' Cap'n didn't seem interested in
that."

"Well, His Supremacy says he wants to check out the Aspects
the Bishop officers use."

They looked at each other.

Shibo said, "Maybe he thinks we don't have enough God-loving
Aspects?"

Jocelyn said, "All I know is what His Supremacy tells me."
"Which sure's not much," Cermo said.

"I can deal with him," Jocelyn said proudly. "! got us food and
tents."

Killeen remembered how, years before they left Snowglade,
the Family had been surprised at night and had to leave behind all
their bedding and tents and a lot of cooking gear. Though they
had fallen far from the wonderful, hypnotically exotic comforts of
Argo, he was glad to see that the Family had adjusted quickly to
the hardships of the land.

Nearby a metal-crafter was fashioning a carryrack from some
wrecked mech tubing. The Bishop camp stirred with effort as old
talents came into play again, and Killeen could see on faces a
reborn confidence that came from finding the old methods still
good and true.

He covered the arrangements Jocelyn had made with the
Tribe, details of supplies and food. He dispatched fifty bishops to
help with the day's foraging, which was conducted as a coordinated
effort ranging far from the Tribesite. There were many
matters of Family business to straighten out. Killeen had to decide
how to reconfigure the Family's elaborate sequence of order-


	198
	Gregory Benford


giving, since they had lost the four in the shuttlecraft and, of
course, Anedlos. That matter Killeen dealt with, speaking between
clenched teeth. "We won't take such treatment. But we'd
better look sharp till we understand things better."

His lieutenants nodded. Even as he went on to discuss other
issues he knew that there was really nothing he could say that
would inspire much confidence among them. The plain bare facts
of their predicament spoke in the barren plain. Here they squatted
in the ancient manner, ready to jump up and move at the
slightest alarm. They had lost everything, the Argo and their
dreams as well, in the span of a few days.

It was Shibo who made their thoughts plain. "Comes a chance,
I say we get back aboard Argo."

"Wish you could've gotten control of it," Killeen said gently.
"Could've gotten away then."

"Naysay," Shibo countered. "That Cyber ship that got you--it
moved lot faster than Argo. Could've caught us easy."

"It took off after me, though. Caught me on the other side the
whole damn planet."

"Only after we'd left in the Flitters," Shibo countered.

"Guess they wanted me," Killeen said lightly, trying to slip by
the moment.

"For what?" Jocelyn asked.
"Gave me a lookover, let me go."
"Sure that's all?" Jocelyn eyed Killeen.

Was she trying to raise suspicions? "Can't explain it. Just lived
through it."

Jocelyn picked at her coverails and said nothing. Killeen felt
some uneasiness seep out of his officers. The simple presence of a
clear leader helped.

He had learned from Fanny the value of putting past errors
and disputes behind the Family. Abraham had been a genius at
that. Killeen knew he lacked his father's lightness of touch at
moments like this.

To break the mood he slurped from a cup of warm brown
fluid--and then abruptly spat it out. "Send out a small party, the
five with the best noses," he said. "See if there are any jodharran
bushes in this godforsaken place. We could brew a decent drink,
at least."

Cermo gulped his. "This stuffs not so bad."
Killeen wrinkled his nose. "Tastes like mechpiss."
"Yeasay," he agreed. "Got some good features, though."


TIDES OF EIGHT


199


"Like what?"

"Well, it's not addictive."

They all stared blankly at one another for a long moment, and
then from Cermo came a mild chuckle, and a guffaw from Jocelyn,
and then they were all laughing, the yelps and rattling coughs
issuing from them as though from deep internal pressures, bursting
forth into the rain and chilly air like small cannon shots,
explosive assertions, little gestures against bleak fortune.


SEVEN


Dawn of the next day brought a howling flurry of dust that sleeted
through the stinging air. It came as work started on breakfast. The
Family Niner campfire got out of control. A moaning wind swept
it in angry gusts. The flames blew into tents and across the spare
dry grass. A pall of smoke rolled through Family Bishop's grounds
and Killeen hurried to pull a team together.

Nobody wanted to come, of course. The wind snatched his
orders away and that made a good excuse to not hear them. The
fire was the Niners' fault but that wouldn't matter much when it
reached them. He had to haul more than a dozen men and women
out by the scruffs of their necks.

They advanced into the teeth of the gale, clawing away the
grass before the tongues of orange that leaped forward with blurring
speed. They couldn't get control of it. They linked up with a
brigade of Niners who were devoting most of their effort to getting
tents and equipment out of the way.

Killeen argued with their lieutenant and got nowhere. He
didn't dare leave his own team and search out the Niner Cap'n, or
he might well return to find that most of the Bishops had gone
back to protect their own valuables. The biting dust made it easy
to slip away into the billowing banks of grit that skirted along the
ground like huge dirty brown animals. There was no good solution
so Killeen sent a runner back with orders to muster the whole
Family, and set to work.

With trenching tools they cut a broad gap before the leaping
flames. It was impossible to face into the storm, with its smarting
flame and stinging sand. They stopped the fire just before it
reached a stand of dead trees, uprooted and dried out, that would
have gone up in a rush, spreading cinders everywhere.

The wind trickled away as suddenly as it had come. They
stomped out the remaining flames and went back to their camp
and found dust everywhere. Every tiny crack in a tent let in


TIDES OF LIGHT


201


powdery drifts of the stuff. Killeen and Shibo were sweeping out
their little tent when Toby came ambling along, hands stuffed into
his side pockets.


"Knew I'd be glad I pitched in the open," he said happily.

"Yeasay, I saw you hunkered down under somebody else's

shelter yes'day, when it rained." Killeen grinned.
"All dried out now."
"You just sleep in a bag?"

"Got no bag, don't need one. Suit keeps me warm." Toby had
on his full running gear--aluminum pelvic cradle and shin servos
and heavy carbosteel shank shocks.

"Must get tired, haulin' all that around," Killeen said.

"I like 'era," Toby said, sitting down and adjusting a com-

pressor lock. "Traded some my 'quipment for 'cm."

"What'd you give?"

"Some backup chips I had in my shoulder."
"Those're Family chips."
Toby looked edgy. "Well . . ."

"They ask for any old religious Aspects?"

"Huh? No, no, notbin' like that."

Killeen felt relieved. He was sure His Supremacy would eventually
try to get chips away from the Bishops simply because
knowledge was power. On the other hand, he shouldn't mistake

every minor incident as a vast portent.

"What'd you give?" he repeated.

"C'mon, Dad, I'm carryin' tech chips nobody'11 ever use again."
Killeen kept his voice fiat. "Like what?"

"Buildin' stuff. Puttin' up walls usin' mech parts, like that."
"We might need that."

"When? Can't build anything here."

His voice finally got away from him, turning sharp. "We'll find
someplace. Build a Citadel, one bigger'n the last. Better, too--only
we won't know how, 'cause you gave away the knowhow."

Toby said sarcastically, "That time comes, I'll just trade 'em

back. If I'm gonna settle down, won't need trekkin' gear."

"You'll find whoever you gave the chips--"

"Two Niner guys, it was. And I traded 'em square, didn't give
'em--"

"--and trade whatever you must. Just get those chips back."

"Dad!" Toby sprang slightly into the air, driven by his compressors.
"I can't just go--"

"You will. Family property stays in the Family."


	202
	Gregory Benford


"Look, other people're tradin'. It's natural."

"Who?"

"How you expect we got runnin' gear, tents, cookin'--"
"Make it, same's on Snowglade. Who?"

"There's not enough meehwreek around. And shapin' it would
take--"

"I saw parts over at the Niner camp. Scrounge some, set
down, 'n' start usin' the craft you got stored in you. Now who
else?"

When Toby had told him the names of four others, he called
Joeelyn and gave her the job of finding them and getting back the
gear they'd bartered. He could see from the stiff set of Joeelyn's
mouth that she didn't like the job but she went off to do it without
a word.

Killeen stood watching Toby making toward the Niner camp.
He was vaguely aware that he could have handled matters better.
Shibo came over and slipped an arm around him, nuzzling his
cheek wordlessly.

He grunted with frustration. "Hard to switch back to father
after bein' Cap'n."

She nodded. "Toby's seared, like us all. Needs something that
gives him a lift."

"I can see that. But...

"We're all recovering. Lost Argo, need some direction."
"Toby seems pretty steady."

"He and Besen have helped each other."

"You mean . . .?"

She nodded, making a sign that meant love, romance, courting.
"Oh." Killeen blinked. "I hadn't noticed."
"Parents often don't." She smiled.
"Well, I..."

Killeen struggled to say something wise and firm, and gave
up--his inner world was a muddle. He knew he was being absurd,
but his first reaction to this news was a piercing sense of loss, To
acknowledge that seemed to slight Shibo--he still had her, after
all. And Toby's growing up was inevitable.

He told himseft that maybe this crisis had made him vulnerable,
and the sudden pang he felt was a side effect of the greater
concerns that weighed upon him. While he tried to sort this out
he saw Shibo's mouth tilt with compressed merriment, and realized
that she could read his consternation. Finally, he gave a
resigned chuckle and threw up his hands.


	TIDES OF LIGHT
	203


"Got to happen sometime. Damnfine girl, too."

"Glad you finally woke up," Shibo said happily. He kissed

her.


His Ling Aspect said sternly:


I still advise against public displays of affection. You face grave
difficulties, and every lessening of the command structure--


Killeen shoved the Aspect back into its cramped space, relishing
the sensation. Now that they were back on solid ground, he
could trust his instincts more.

He left Shibo and moved among the Bishop camp, wondering
what measures he could take to ease his increasing sense of
danger. Besen was sitting on a natural ledge as she flux-shaped
some mechmetal into carrygear.

"Toby's nose's lfl bent," she said as he sat down,

"So's everybody's," he countered.

He had always been able to speak naturally to Besen. Now
that he thought about her it gradually dawned that this "girl" was
in fact a woman with easy self-assurance. Her angular face had a
quality of shrewd reserve.

"Some say we're worse off than we were on Snowglade," she
said.

"Could be."

"They figure that string's up there ready to move any minute.
We'll never get back through it."

"Unless we can figure when it'll move," Killeen countered.
"How?" she asked.

Killeen grinned. "No idea."

Besen laughed. "Well, least with you back everybody's not so
glum."

Killeen blinked. "Huh?"

"I'd given up on us. We just sat around starin' at the ground
till you showed up."

He was genuinely startled. "Why?"

"Jocelyn tried to pull us together. It just didn't work."
Killeen said nothing and she went on, "We followed you
'cause you had a dream we believed in. That's the only reason to
leave home, ever."

"Dream's gone."

"Yeasay, we know that. We're not dumb." She gave him a
stern look, mouth pursed.


	204
	Gregory Benford


"And Cybers're worse than mechs."

"You got more than one dream in you though."
Killeen was startled again. "What?"
"You'll think of some way. We know that."

He did not know what to say and covered this by standing up.
"C'mon, you can show me the area."

Her wide mouth seemed to hold some suppressed mirth at his
awkwardness. She said solemnly, "Yessir."

By all the precepts he had learned, to idle in a huge camp like
this, clearly conspicuous from the air or even from orbit, was
foolhardy. Bonfires at night, smoke plumes by day, regular arrays
of tents--all these mechs knew well. Cybers, too, presumably.

He walked by the Bishop slit trenches, already fragrant, and
tested the grab-pole running along one side for strength. More
than once, when a boy, he had squatted beside a trench without
one and lost his balance. This pole was a long alum-ceramic arm
from some mechtech, caught in Y-sticks at the ends. It took his
full weight as he squatted and did his daily ritual, always performed
after breakfast. The Bishops had long since lost their
shyness about such matters and did not erect any shelter around
the trench; even in the longlost Citadel, privacy had been a minor
concern. He walked over the spur of the next low ridge and saw
that this Tribe felt differently. Some had fold-up shields, one even
with a roof. But farther down the valley he saw a rivulet, gorged
with the recent rain, serving first as drinking water and then,
downstream, as a sewer.

"Plain dumb," Besen said at his elbow.

"The river?" he asked.

"Yeasay. Already got dysentery in some the Families. Big
camp like this, you get a worse sickness, it'll jump aroun' pretty
quick."

"Any signs yet?"

"I heard rumors," she said.

"Let me know if you hear more."
"Hard gettin' much from 'era."
"Howcome?"

"They're full of talk 'bout righteousness and how if they follow
the true path everything'11 turn out right and so on."

"Could be some their Aspects ridin' them a little hard."

Besen surveyed the valley as she said, "Yeasay. From the
High Arcology time seems like."


	TIDES OF LIGHT
	205


Killeen felt oddly pleased. "Most young people don't care
enough about history to remember stuff like that."

She turned to study his face. "How can you not? Only way we
can make sense of all this."

"Sure--if you've got time. We'll be hustlin' pretty hard now."

Her eyebrows narrowed. "Forget who we are, what's the
point goin' on?"

"Right." Killeen was obscurely proud of her quiet vehemence.
This Tribe might succumb to His Supremacy, but he was quite
sure the Bishops would not.

"Besen... I'm glad you're with Toby. He and I aren't getting
on well right now,"

She smiled. "Rough times for us all."

"The time when a boy breaks away and makes his own path,
well . . ."

"I know."

"I... I appreciate the help," he finished lamely.

"You're not doing so bad," she said, and went back to her
labors. Killeen stood regarding the valley and wrestling with his
thoughts. In principle he was in a simple situation. A Cap'n
followed Tribal orders. But he sensed something deeply dangerous
in all this.

"Reportin', Cap'n," Joeelyn said formally. He had not heard
her approach.

"You take care those chips?"

"Kicked a lfl ass, looks like it'll be okay."

"Good. How're our reserves?"

"Not much." She punched her wrist and a graphic-display
inventory of edible supplies appeared in Killeen's right eye, available
on blink-access.

He studied the hills. There had been thick woods in the
arroyos. Many were clogged by mudslides. Swaths of trees were
already gray and dead. "Bet we'll scavenge the territory around
here fast, too. Pick it clean."

'Tll see ff the Families got any food stores."

Killeen gestured toward the creek that snaked its way down
the dusty valley. "Water'11 be no problem for a while. If something
samples that creek downstream, though, it'll know we're
here."

"Cybers?"

Killeen scowled, looking at the sprawl of Families open and


	206
	Gregory Benford


careless in the valley. "Likely. Point is, what we get from fightin'
Cybers?"

Jocelyn studied his face. Did she suspect anything? he
wondered.

He had told Shibo as much as he could about his time inside
the Cyber. She had agreed that until he understood it better, it
was probably a bad idea to relate the story in full to others.

To the Family's questions he had let on, without actually
lying, that he had somehow stowed away on the body of a Cyber
and then escaped from the subterranean nest when a chance
came. He could scarcely explain the colliding sensations that had
assaulted him inside the Cyber's body. Those memories now
provoked shudders of disgust in him. Images from them shot
through his sleep. He had intentionally worked hard the day
before in hopes that fatigue would grant him oblivion in sleep. But
the brooding, shifting dreams had troubled him again. This morning's
fire had roused him from a terrifying sensation of suffocating
in spongy air that swarmed into his lungs whenever he tried to
draw a clean breath. To be yanked into the real world, even one
with a raging fire to be put out, had been a relief.

"We have any choice?" Jocelyn asked, her eyes concerned.
Killeen wondered if he seemed odd to the Family; certainly
Jocelyn was acting a little awkward and formal with him. Shibo,
too, had been careful with him since his return, as if he were both
fragile and unreliable. Well, Killeen reflected, maybe he was.

"Prob'ly not. Looks like Cybers're mostly interested in guttin'
this planet, though, not usin' its surface."

He gestured above, where a thin skirt of clouds partly obscured
a distant gray mottling. Patches of Cyber construction
arced in polar orbits low on the horizon. The long arc of the
cosmic string was a faint, pale yellow scratch across the sky.
Something turned at the limits of his vision. He focused on it but
saw only a thin trace image moving in equatorial orbit. Cybers
owned space but for some reason did not use sky assault against
them. Why?

Jocelyn said, "They suck the core dry, take all its metal, we'll
have nothin' but scrap left. That'll kill all the plants, and prob'ly
US, tOO."

Killeen listened to Arthur a quick moment and said, "My
Aspects say there won't be any big change in temperature for a
while. Quakes are the big problem."

"His Supremacy says--"


	TIDES OF LIGHT
	207


"Look, a man who thinks he's God can't be trusted much."
"I think we should believe in him."
"Believe him, or in him?"

Jocelyn said warily, "I've watched him several more days than
you have. He was most gracious. After all, we were people who
suddenly dropped from the sky and placed demands on his
Families--food, shelter. He helped us get away from the shuttles,
before the Cybers tracked them. He is a natural commander!"

"Look, 'member how Fanny was? That's leadership. This guy--"

"He is using new methods," Jocelyn said adamantly. "These

are terrible times, the old ways don't work."

"They're all we've got."

"Well then, by our mutual laws, as Elder he should have
appointed a new Cap'n. You were gone, prob'ly dead. So if he'd

stuck by the laws, you wouldn't be Cap'n now."

Ah, he thought. "Who would?"

She hesitated, then said, "His Supremacy asked me and I took
on settling into camp. Negotiated with other Families."

"You're to be commended. That's all for now," Killeen said,
giving her a clipped salute. He pointedly turned his back to
survey the valley again.

His Ling Aspect broke in on his thoughts:


That officer likes the taste of command. My experience is that
even dangerous times do not slake that thirst.


Killeen kicked a stone, enjoying the satisfying thunk as it
bounded down the slope.


EIGHT

His Supremacy's tent was sultry with sweet incense and tangy
sweat. The fifteen Cap'ns arrayed in a crescent before the broad
black desk stood stiffly at attention, as ordered. A layer of blue
smoke hung over their heads. The cloying smell caught in Kil-leen's
throat, making him cough. His Supremacy frowned at the
sound and repeated his command.
"All Families will commit the same strength in this attack. We
strike simultaneously. We all risk, we all triumph."
Killeen thought, And if we lose, nobody'll be positioned for
rear guard, nobody'll cover our ass. But he did not dare say it.
"We shall follow our same, victorious tactics--the way of right
action that has brought us so far. Following the assault, we must
destroy as many of the Cyber buildings as we can."
Killeen said, before caution could intervene, "I am most
sorry, but I do not know the proper tactic."
His Supremacy turned almost lazily to gaze directly into Kil-leen's
eyes. Until now the swarthy, compact man had delivered
his speech with his eyes fixed on the blue haze, as though secrets
lurked high in the tent.
"I had imagined that you would have learned the revolutionary
developments in battle I have brought about."
"I've seen your weapons. Quite extensive, some I've never
heard about, but--"
"Cap'n of the Bishops--a Suit unfamiliar to me as yet, but one
I am willing to allow into my company of the devout--I understand
your ignorance. When I foretold the arrival of your Family,
I said the help which would fall from heaven would demand
shaping. I and my officers are willing to fashion you to my higher
ends, rest assured."
"Well, sir, ! appreciate that. My Family will need--"
"Perhaps you have not noticed that no one, in addressing me,
uses the slight and paltry honorific 'sir.'"

208

	TIDES OF LIGHT
	209

Killeen made the gesture he had seen the other Cap'ns usea
bow, while stepping back and casting his hands down at the floor.
It seemed to imply total acceptance.
His Supremacy nodded, looking almost bored. "You practiced
the frontal assault, on whatever world sent you?"
"On Snowglade, yeasay--but hardly ever, 'cause mechplexes
got their perimeters bracketed. Pick you off fast . . ." It took an
effort to conclude, "Your Supremacy."
"I devised a devastating new way to use the frontal attack. It
involves designating one Family as prime warriors, those who
expose themselves early, to draw fire. A second party then surprises
the enemy by springing forth from concealment. Then the
main body assaults the nest."
"That second party--how do they stay hidden... Supremacy?" "By slipping into the tunnels of the vile Cyber nests."
Killeen frowned and said nothing. But the short man in his
brilliant uniform looked reproachfully at him and said, "You have
much to learn here, Cap'n. My revelation, which yielded this
splendid method, assured me of our victories. It is not as though
we proceed forward in shadow and uncertainty."
Killeen nodded, not knowing what he could say.
"I foresee our triumph, carried on the wings of God, and my
shoulders. You see, Cap'n of the Bishops, I have ascended to the
panoply of Gods. As the representative of the Essential Will of
nature, I am necessarily Divine in my own right."
His Supremacy explained this as if he were talking to a bright
but ignorant child. Killeen had questions to ask but something in
the curiously blank eyes of His Supremacy kept him silent.
His Supremacy nodded as if satisfied and then shouted suddenly,
"Sound the convocation! I must prepare the Families for
the next step in their destiny!"
Cap'ns and underofficers scurried to alert their Families. A
rank of armed men and women fell to, their full running gear
gleaming from a fresh polish. They clanked and wheezed as they
escorted His Supremacy outside, dwaffing him in their sheathed
shock boots.
Killeen sent a quick summons to Jocelyn, Shibo, and Cermo.
The assembly was already nearly complete in the valley outside,
their Bishops positioned in rectangular ranks to the right flank of
the formation. The brief address by His Supremacy to his Cap'ns
had barely followed what Killeen knew of Tribal forms. Most of it


	210
	Gregory Benford


he had found incomprehensible. Now His Supremacy would address
the entire Tribe.

The Tribe comprised all the surviving Families of this portion
of New Bishop. No one spoke of the other Tribes which had lived
on this world. Apparently mech cities had lately begun using
humans in their conflicts. Though there had been incidents of that
on Snowglade, Killeen's Family lore held that competition among
mechs was more like pruning unwanted branches from a fruitful
plant. Here, though, mechs warred with one another. Had the
Cybers timed their invasion to take advantage of that?

Killeen walked down onto the valley floor beside the Cap'n of
the Treys. Afternoon sunlight broke in patches through the cloud
cover. He searched for the cosmic string but it was invisible. If it
began spinning and preparing to suck again from the core, Killeen
intended to get his Family to fiat ground, no matter what the
Tribe did.

It seemed like a long time since the Treys' Cap'n had led him
away from His Supremacy's tent, past the transfixing burial ceremony.
Killeen mentioned that to her and the Cap'n replied, "Had
a few more since. Cybers're operatin' over the next mountain
range---what's left of it. Couple Cybers nailed some Sebens, left
the bodies with those mite eggs buried in their guts."

"Cybers could plant somethin' more in the bodies, too," Kil-leen
said delicately.

Lines furrowed the Cap'n's already weathered, resigned face.
"Like what?"

"Tracers. Find us, usin' 'cm."

She shook her head. "They don't care enough. Just shoot our

people when they get in the way. Not like mechs--least not yet."
"You worked for mechs."
"Sure--only way we'd survive."

"Where I came from couldn't trust mechs that much."
"They got crazy. Started bustin' up each other."

Killeen said cautiously, "That question I asked back there. ··
I didn't understand all he said."

"Just integrate your people's electromag-tags, hailing codes,
stuff like that."

"But look, there's planning--"

"We go in separately, once the team's penetrated into the
tunnels."

"What about supporting fire?"

"Manage it yourself. Each Family backs up its own."


	TIDES OF LIGHT
	211


Killeen said skeptically, "Seems it'd be better if--"

The Cap'n of the Treys gave him a tired, sardonic look. "I
kinda like it this way. His Supremacy says do it this way, fine.

That way I can pull my Family out fast, if things go bad."

"But coordination--"

"Look, this plan's the word of God."

The Cap'n said this in a voice that was suddenly fiat, factual.
Killeen opened his mouth to reply with a cutting jibe and saw that
behind them walked three officers. When he glanced over his
shoulder they seemed to be taking an interest in what he would
say. He shut his mouth and nodded woodenly.

He reached the Bishop formation just before His Supremacy
began speaking. The words came to them over general comm,
broadcast by linked capacities of a triangle of orificers assembled
just below His Supremacy on a small knoll.

Even though Killeen had been told that the Tribe numbered
well over two thousand, the sight of so many people turned out in
ranks, nearly crossing the valley with their columns, was impressive.
He had not seen so many since a grand holiday at the
Citadel, when he had been a boy younger than Toby was now.
Then the occasion had been festive; now a solemn, grim air
pervaded the comm. Hoisted Family flags fluttered and snapped
in the wind, patched and sunbleached.

His Supremacy began with a convoluted history of their valiant
battles, so filled with names and honorifics that Killeen could
make no sense of it. Certainly it told him nothing of how the
Families had fought, and Killeen began to suspect that His Supremacy
in fact cared little for the essential details of maneuver
and command. This emerged soon, as the man waved his hands
wildly and described the evils of their enemies, his face congested
with rage. The Cybers did not accidentally resemble demons from
the pit, noand soon they would return there, banished.

"Rebuke and scorn, do they face! Defeat and castigation!"
His Supremacy drew himself up and, even though Killeen
kept a cool and skeptical part of himself withdrawn, the force of
the man's ardor began to penetrate.

"Death comes to us all! But it cannot sting. The grave has no
victory! It is where we are rewarded."

The vast crowd stirred as more long, rolling sentences washed
over them. Killeen felt himself moved by the rhythmic, chantlike
sweep. For the first time he understood how His Supremacy had


	212
	Gregory Benford


held together a Tribe that had suffered shattering defeats and now
faced an incomprehensible enemy of casual viciousness.

"--at whose coming, to judge the All that Is, I shall stand upon
the right hand--"

The very air seemed to flicker with new intensity, hot filaments
running on the breeze.

"--render the things of metal and flesh into base matter!
Shatter these minions of history's last battle against us! For we
arise from the natural substances of the universe, and are at one
with it, and enjoyeth its fruits without artifice or corruption of
spirit. We are the product of God's own evolution. Monsters shall
not fall from the sky and have these holy rewards, not if we hallow
the ancients' names."

Distant rumblings, as if mountains rubbed a coarse sky.

" for after the final liberating battle we shall go faring forth.
We shall call to the most holy and majestic Skysower and be fed
and brought forth!"

Illuminations shot through the clouds. Something silvery stirred
high up.

"--to deliver us from the evil of this place. These devourers of
worlds will fall, as the mechs fell before them. Believe in me---"

A cyclonic churn parted the banks of mottled clouds. Killeen
felt the crowd begin to notice.

"---on Earth... as it is . . . in heaven!"

Striations of blue descended, curving along long arcs. Traceries
frenzied the air. A rush of heat beat down from a sky that
seemed emptied. Yet Killeen's sensorium quivered with pale,
swift intricacy.

"Thy kingdom come. Thy will be done. Malevolence focused
by supreme will, we entreat you--"

A gathering presence loomed in Killeen's sensorium--yet the air
showed only translucent, skittering feelers of luminescence. Killeen
remembered suddenly seeing such immense flickerings before. They
had lit the distant skies the night after the cyborg released him.

"What--what?" His Supremacy croaked. His rhythm broken,
he gaped at the display above.

And a voice Killeen knew came fluttering, at first almost lost in
wind-whisperings:


I seek a particular human. Give sign if you can perceive
this. I speak on magnetic wings, and bring tidings from
the very center of this realm.


TIDES OF LIGHT


213


His Supremacy's voice boomed, full of undisguised surprise
and joy. "I am here! I have brought your word by sword and
daring--"


No, you are not the one. I am enjoined to convey this
only to the target human. My feet are mired in plasma,
while these arms extend even unto your bitter-cold zones.
Find me the one named Killeen. I speak for his father.


NINE


A tide of rustling disquiet swept across the valley. The ranks of the
assembled Families wavered. Feet shuffled nervously, stirring
dust that rose like a visible answer. Heads leaned back, trying to
make out the shadowed filigree that danced featherlight across the
sky.

"What?" His Supremacy's voice was weak and strained, compared
with the full, resonant power that came hammering down
from the fretted air. "It is . . . God? God speaks in this manner?"


I seek a being of the class I perceive is gathered here. I
have searched this world far beyond my obligation to do
so, and found fair few of you small things. Such low
forms are usually numerous, but you are rare among
these sheltered enclaves I have examined--these rude,
chilly planets of uninteresting, slow matter.


"I speak for all humanity here," His Supremacy cried.

In Killeen's sensorium the human voice seemed awash in a
lapping fretwork of smoothed waves. The massive swells were
gridworks that bulged and slid. He remembered the mathematically
generated ocean he had sailed in the grip of the Mantis's mind.

Are you the one I seek? You emit a pungent reek, simfiar
to his, I see. But your essence is shaped with less angularity,
and colored in the deeper hues of frying gases. No,
you are not that one. Be gone.


His Supremacy's mouth twisted with dark rage. "You are not
God! You come from the Cybers. You must! Say it! Be gone with
you, foul demon!"

Killeen held himself back, unsure. This was the very voice that
had called to him years before, on Snowglade. It had advised him


214


	TIDES OF LIGHT
	215


to not rebuild the Bishop Citadel, and to seek the Argo. After the
Bishops had found Argo buried under a weathered hillside, Kil-leen
had expected further contact with the voice, more orders--but
nothing had come in the two years of Argo's voyaging. He
longed to answer it.

But here? The voice would be heard by all, and might reveal
what Killeen should do next.

He tried to guess what His Supremacy would make of it,
especially since the man's red face had already knotted with
frustration. The act of receiving the message might in turn make it
impossible for Killeen to act upon it, if His Supremacy could
somehow turn the information to his own ends.


So many of you small things, each with a different aroma
and shape. Vexing! Creation is diverse, but trivially so--what
need can there be for this variety, these endlessly
multiplied shadings and nuances? It is not as though you
mites are works of true craft, after all. It simply makes
my task more difficult.


"Flee, foul agent!--or we will crush you!" His Supremacy put
all his considerable throaty power into the jeering shout.


You venture to clash with me? To crush a being made of
the most tenacious fields? My magnetic skirts could sweep
you to dust, little worrisome grub. The discharge of my
merest idle thought would wreak charring violence through
a thousand such as you. But no matter--I cannot be
bothered to fathom the mire of vile scents and squashed
angles that make up your fledgling race. I cannot rummage
through a legion of such, all to deliver a message of
muddled meanings. I go.


The roiling seethe began to ebb from the heavens. The pres-

sure in Killeen's sensorium trickled away.

"No! Wait!"

He leaped in the air, arms flung up as if to grab the retracting
lines of blue flux high above them. "I'm Killeen! Here!"

The lacy pattern of radiance paused and rippled. Killeen watched
it shoot fresh feelers downward, following the arcing magnetic
field lines of the planet.


So you are. I sense your flat odor and slanted self.
Good--I tire of this pursuit, this obligation. I received


216


Gregory Benford


this injunction from a power which sits farther in toward
the Eater than do even I. Though my head can reach up
into the realm of cool, sluggish worlds such as this, my
many feet stand upon a crisply ordered plane of storm-cut
plasma, the accretion disk that hotly feeds the appetite
of the Eater. From far inside my tossed realm comes
this frame of questions which I now ask.


Killeen watched His Supremacy as these words poured down.
The man's anger seemed bottled up, making his eyes bulge and
lips protrude. His jaw waggled to the side, back and forth. But he
gave no orders. Killeen stepped clear of his Family so his senso-rium
would be as clean as he could make it.

"Tell me--last time, you said somethin' calling itself my father
was there. What--"


The first is a question. How is Toby?


Any doubts Killeen had harbored about the meaning of that
strange sentence, years before, now vanished. Who but Abraham
would ask first about his grandson?

"He's fine--growin' like a weed. Standin' right here beside
me. See if you can pick up his--"


I perceive a weaker aura, yes, somewhat similar to yours.
I shall relay it backward, down magnetic lines which
spiral into the Center. It shall be refracted into the
tangle of geometries where something darkly awaits. There
is a spray of antimatter near my footpoint, arising from
some artificial means, and thus I cannot guarantee precise
transmissions of such flimsy data as your minute


auras.


"My father's there with you? Tell him we need--"

Not here with me, no; all I ken is the assertion that he
lived farther in, whirling somewhere in time-racked eddies.


"Lived? Does he live still now?" Killeen's voice tightened.


Forms such as yourself seem to lurk there, for purposes
not revealed to me. I cannot tell if that particular unit
persists. The presence there of such inconsequential, prim-


TIDES OF LIGHT


217


itive entities is a greater mystery than anything in your
messages, little mind, but I shall not trouble you with
issues you cannot comprehend. Attend you, then: The
next message is Apply the Argo ship's codes to the Legacies.


Killeen shouted, "Legacies? But we've lost--"


Silence, small mind.


"Our ship is gone!"

Unconcerned, the electromagnetic entity above stirred as
though restless. It cast auroras of shimmering green into the nearby
clouds, pressing them back so that the whole vault of the sky
opened. The high cirrus banks yawned, as if to bite the somber
sky beyond.


The messages I am enjoined to deliver are not simple
statements, but rather microscopic intelligencesfragments
of the mind that sent them. Thus I must wait for this
speck to conjure up some reply to you. It now says, Then
you are lost.


"But that's--"

His Supremacy shouted, "Cap'n of the Bishops! I command
you to desist. Converse with this agent of corruption will confuse
all our Tribe and bring error to us all."

Killeen glanced at His Supremacy and waved him away, trying
to think. His father--

"I warn you!" His Supremacy's voice gained menace. "Dealing
with--"

"Cermo! Perimeter star!"

The Bishops broke rank and reformed into a well-spaced,
outer-directed phalanx. The air sang as their sensoria focused
outward, crisping the tangled fields of the other Families.

Killeen said levelly, "I'll brook no interference. This is no devil
or God-killer. Leave us be!"

"I command--" But His Supremacy broke off the sentence as
he felt the impact of the massed, merged Bishop field.

Weapons came down from shoulders, clicked on, pointed at
primary targets--beginning with His Supremacy.

"We Bishops require a moment. Hear me! I invoke the ancient
rules, the first and most revered among them being Family privacy."


	218
	GregoW Benford

The valley buzzed with unease. The other Families made no
move. His Supremacy clenched his fists but only watched as
Killeen turned his sensorium back skyward.

I was not to deliver these portents until you were free of
the grasp of mechanical intelligences. That was why I did
not speak to you on your ship. It is inhabited by mechanical
forms which should not receive the key to the Legacies.

"Argo's got mechs aboard?" Killeen had known some small
forms still evaded capture 'after the successful human mutiny on
Snowglade, but he had thought they were powerless and insignificant.


Mechanicals are pervasive. They are the dust that hangs
between the suns.

There was almost a note of sympathy in the brooding voice that
pressed through Killeen's sensorium.

"Look, is there any way my father can help us? We're trapped
here. Some other lifeform's ripping the whole planet apart. No
way we can get free, unless somethin' powerful as you aids us."


I am a messenger, not fl savior.


"Tell my father, if he's still alive. Send us help!"

The small mind I can interrogate sends wails of remorse,
if that is any comfort to you. But nothing else. My powers
are not at its disposal, in any ease.


The colorful traceries began to fade.
"Don't leave us here!"


Farewell.


"No!"

But it was gone.

Killeen slumped to the ground with sudden fatigue. A heavy
depression settled into him like a cloud and he panted as if he had
been running. Color seeped from the world.

Shibo tugged him up. Hands supported him, Toby put an arm


	TIDES OF LIGHT
	219


around his shoulders and brought Killeen forward. The Bishops
still held their defensive star formation. The air was tense as the

other Families studied them, hands hovering not far from weapons.
Shibo said, "It will return. Don't give up."

Killeen gazed around at the bleak, dusty plain and the ranks of
ragged humanity that filled it. "Right. Right," he said automatically,
without believing the words.

His Supremacy's voice boomed, "We have frightened it, be
sure of that. The being fled our show of solidarity before it!"

Killeen shook his head and said nothing, He expected instant
retribution from His Supremacy but the swarthy man merely
glared. An empty, glazed look came into his eyes.

His Supremacy turned from the Bishops and began intoning
more of the ancient litany. Killeen made a sign and the Bishops
relaxed from the star formation, making straight ranks again. But

the edgy tension on the plain, though muted, did not go away.
Beside Killeen, Toby whispered, "That guy won't forget."
Besen added, "Maybe that sky thing scared him. Sure did

me."

"Hard, searin' a man who's already God," Shibo said wryly.

Killeen listened to the rest of the service numbly, the words
passing like raindrops sliding on a windowpane.

When the ceremony was finished he led the Bishops from the
plain. They stepped smartly, though their eyes were hollow and
distracted. He registered the bitter whisperings from the other
Families. Some called taunts and threats. He let it all slip by. He
was remembering his father's face.

As they passed the clump of officers around His Supremacy,
the man gave Killeen a pinched, assessing look, eyes narrow and
dark. "We will speak to you later, Cap'n," was all he said. Then he
turned away sharply and stalked off.

Killeen's Grey Aspect said:


Yon Supremacy... has a lean and hungry look. Such men
are dangerous... as the ancients said.


Killeen nodded, but compared to what the Bishops had just
lost, the opinions of mere men seemed quite trivial.


PART FIVE -- SKYSOWER

ONE

Twilight seeped through grimy clouds, casting pale blades along
the hillside where Family Bishop retreated. Killeen stopped and
looked back. The tail guard had just reached the foothills of this
slumped ridge and would stop there to defend their rear.
"Hold till we clear the summit," he sent to Cermo.
--Yeasay,-- Cermo replied at minimal comm level. They were
keeping their transmissions few and weak, to avoid detection by
Cybers in pursuit. --Running low on ammo.--
Killeen did not answer because there was nothing he could do.
There was no more ammunition with the main body of the Family,
where he was. Given the Cybers' ability to attack from any
direction, there was no point in reinforcing either the advance
guard or the rear party.
Cermo had been forced to use arms and energy-store to pick
off the small, tubular things that were trailing the Family. These
dog-sized creatures seemed to be miniature Cybers, with reddish
carapaces and aluminum-sheathed legs. Unarmed, they had followed
the Family ever since the disaster at the magnetic generating
stations. And they had proved smart, too; they hung back and
scattered when Cermo sent people to pick them off, delaying the
Family still further.
Even one of the cyborged insects could give away their position,
and there were thousands of hiding spots in the jumble of
the valley they had just left.
He walked up the steep hillside. His feet were blistered
and he favored his left, hobbling slightly. Some water had
gotten into his thigh sleeves and had dribbled down into his
webbing socks. All the boot- and compressor-shock tech in the

221


	222
	Gregory Benford


world could not keep pressure off the sore, inflamed tissue of his
heels.

The water had come from geysers bursting suddenly from a
sandy canyon. They had been erossing it at full speed after the
battle. There had been no time to stop and check, and now dozens
of Family limped along with the same ailment,

--I've found Joeelyn's beeper,-- Shibo sent. She was already
over the summit, leading the advance guard. Killeen sent a quick
trill note as acknowledgment, hoping that would be less a telltale
than a human voice if the Cybers picked up the transmission.

The message brought a glimmer of cheer. Joeelyn led the
Family's other party, cut off during the battle. Their fallback plan
of retreat was working, then; she had found a way along parallel
ridgelines and passed through the low canyons beyond, leaving a
signifier, as planned. That meant they hadn't been forced to skirt
around any Cybers, which in turn implied that perhaps the aliens
were not following the Bishops at all, Slim evidence, but Killeen
grimly allowed himself that hope. At this point, hope was a vital as
energy.

But then Shibo sent, --More dead,-- and Killeen's mood
darkened.

He cut in his reserves of power and bounded up the last long
shelf of shattered rock before the summit. A red sunset cut momentarily
through the smoky cloud deck, casting stark shadows in
the rutted arroyos beyond. He reached the top, panting. He
expanded his sensorium momentarily and picked up Shibo's green
tracer. Closeupped he saw her dispersing her party to the flanks,
where they took up defensive positions.

Killeen boosted off on full power and made his way down the
steep slope in a series of jumps. His compressors wheezed and he
let his calves take most of the shock, but his feet howled in pain.

Strangely filigreed foliage cloaked the arroyos. He slowed to
get through it. Spindly trees formed a green canopy over him as
he passed Family members in the shadows. The tough, warped
trunks still dung to the ruptured soil and already had begun to
correct their slant, turning to seek the sky along new verticals.
Though there were wide swaths cut in the willowy, silent forest by
hillslides and fresh, earring streams, life seemed able to hang on
tenaciously. Sharp paw prints testified to the survival of large
animals, though Killeen seldom saw these except at great dis-tanees.
They were wary of mechs and Cybers and men alike.

He found Shibo sitting at the base of a rise, staring upward.


TIDES OF LIGHT


223


He followed her gaze and saw a body hanging from a large,
gnarled tree. "Any of ours?"

"Naysay," she answered. "Looks like a Jack."

Several Family members followed them as they approached
the tree. The woman's gaunt body swayed on fiberweave ropes,
expertly trussed. Her entire chest and stomach bulged with one of
the glassy, opaque blisters Killeen had seen before. This one was
oozing milky fluid from its peak.

"Looks 'bout ready. It'll pop soon," Shibo said.

"Right. How long ago did Jocelyn come by here?" Killeen
asked.

"I figure couple hours. Her beeper was pretty played out."
"Where was it?" '
"Down where I was sitting."

"So either she left it here so we'd see this . . ."
"Or somethin' left this by the beeper."
"Yeasay--after she'd gone on."

Shibo peered at him, the blades of bone beneath her cheeks
seeming to stretch her browned skin taut and shinv. "WhichP" she
asked uncertainly. ' '

Killeen tried to figure how a Cyber might think. "Why'd
Jocelyn point out this? More likely she'd steer us away."

Shibo nodded. "So some Cyber found her beeper and left
this."

Killeen stood back and watched ants swarming over the face of
the body.as it turned slowly in the wind. "Wonder if it's s'posed to
scare us.

"See that?" Shibo pointed.

The hands and feet were pierced. From the blood), wounds
protruded green stalks ending in fully opened yellow blossoms.
The flowers seemed to grow out of the woman.

Killeen felt a sick chill spread through him, remembering the
grotesque sculptures of the Mantis. The same horribly rendered
theme. "Whv'd a Cyber do that?"

"Combined plant and animal," Shibo said.
"Some kind of message?"
"Why'd it do that?"

"Thing 'bout aliens is, they're alien." He spat on the ground in
exasperation. Why did both Mantis and Cyber make this "art"
warping humans and plants?

A man nearby moved toward the body and extended his knife
to cut the ropes.


224

Gregory Benford


	"No!" Killeen knocked down the man's hand.

	'Ts just fixin'--"

	"Don't touch it."
	,,

	"--get it down, poke the thing that's livin' inside it.

"It's prob'ly tagged. You cut it down, alarms go off, Cybers
come running.

The man looked outraged. "You let it grow in there, come out,
it'll be one more Cyber!"

Shibo said, "Naysay. They grow their lfl helpers in us, not
themselves."

The man blinked and then a pale, washed-out expression stole
over him and he turned away. Killeen looked down the rise to the
forest, where Bishops were straggling in from the long retreat.
They slumped down, not even bothering to lean against trees, and
lay with their heads resting on their carrypacks.

"We're 'bout played out," he said reflectively.

"Can't stop here," Shibo said. "Cybers know this place."
Killeen nodded. "Might come back."

He wondered if Cybers found it any more difficult to move and
seek at night. Probably not, since he remembered their natural
optical senses worked best in the infrared. Which meant that the
gathering gloom gave Family Bishop no advantage here.

He walked to the middle of the gathering crowd and sat, his
legs gratefully ceasing their aches. The quakes had shaken most of
the odd, triangular leaves to the floor of the forest, providing a
deliciously soft loam for rest. Approaching Bishops' bootsteps made
no noise whatever, and the ebbing twilight suffused the scene in a
soothing, serene light.

His feet screamed for release, but he did not dare take off his
boots for fear that he would not be able to get them back on
when his feet swelled. He was tempted to expand his sensorium
and get a quick head count, but the hanging body had made him
wary of even the slightest electromagnetic tracer.

And in any case, he knew the rough dimensions of their loss.
Family Bishop had been the outer flanking element in the assault,
a relatively less dangerous position affording a clear escape route.
They had gone in after the forward units sprang from their concealment
in the Cyber tunnels. The battle had played out on the
plain beneath the magnetic generator buildings. Those units had
appeared directly among the Cybers.

Killeen had witnessed the fate of those brave Families. The
assault ratio must have been at least one Family per Cyber. The


	TIDES OF LIGHT
	225


first rush had brought down two Cybers and things had looked
good. Then men and women began to fall on the plain as though
blown over by a sudden soundless wind. Killeen had not been
able to pick up any signatures of microwave or optical or even
kinetic-kill weapons. People fell in midstride, as though picked up
and slammed into the ground by an invisible giant.

The rush came to a sudden halt. Families regrouped behind
the fallen, smoking Cybers. Even there some weapon picked
them off one at a time. They tried a rush toward the magnetic
generators that loomed above like mud-colored, rectangular hills--and
fell by the dozens, their strangled eries twisting through the
comm.

The Bishops answered the blaring attack signal of His Supremacy.
More Families poured over the distant hills. They spread out
and moved in jerky dashes between the covering shelter of arroyos
and dumps of trees and boulders. The battlefield was a gray
seabland left by some recent magma-spewing vent which had
obliterated the life there. Whether this was by accident or design
Killeen could not tell. The Cybers had already bored tunnels in
the barely cooled lake of lava. Cracks in the crusty scab gave some
shelter as the Tribe descended and brought withering fire to bear
on the four remaining Cybers.

Had they been meehs, the directed bursts would have sheared
away legs and burned out antennae. Here, nothing happened. The
Cybers paused, as though reassessing the situation, and then went
on picking off the darting human targets, as if nothing more
bothersome than a summer's rain fell upon them.

Killeen had been running at the middle of the Family. He saw
the first Family members fall and ordered everyone down. They
had poured a torrent of fire on the nearest Cyber, and succeeded
in blowing away several appendages. But even the natural, warty
skin repelled all shots.

This Killeen could not believe until he tried three successive
bolts straight into the exposed midsection of the thing. Only after
all three failed, fading away to mere luminous blue traceries in the
air, did he notice the slight shimmer that hung over the Cyber,
and hear the crackle of ionizing air in his sensorium.

That was when he called retreat. His Supremacy had immediately
broken into Killeen's eomm line and cursed him, demanding
another full assault. Killeen had hesitated for a long moment,
while Bishops died all around him. The chaos of the rest of the


	226
	Gregory Benford


battlefield had stormed against his sensorium, blinding him with
its agonized calls and screamed pleas.

He had to resist the press of centuries of Family tradition, the
absolute rule that said an Elder of the Tribe must be obeyed,
especially in the split-second tumult of battle. Killeen had paused,
agonizing, and that was the moment when he saw Loren, a boy
Toby's age, blown apart. The boy simply went to pieces. Something
had struck him in the chest and made a bloody flower of
him. Even though Loren was down in the apparent shelter of a
lava crack, the burnished rock failed to stop whatever the Cybers
used.

He called retreat then. Similar orders seemed to echo faintly
in his comm, coming from other Cap'ns, but he could not be sure.
He had provided some covering fire for the main body of Bishops,
but harshly commanded that no one try to recover any fallen
bodies. They had lost eleven getting off the plain, and still more
working their way through the arroyos and over the ridgeline. He
had barely stopped the retreat from turning into a rout. And all
the while, he had ignored the mad, rattling curses of His Supremacy.

The only blessing in all this was that the children, pregnant
women, and older Family members were all with the supply train.
That was an improvement over their clashes with mechs on
Snowglade. The abilities of the Cybers more than made up for
that, though.

Killeen let himself wonder for a moment about the next
time he saw His Supremacy. Would the man order him hoisted
up on a spit, like the suffering remnants of people he had seen at
the Tribal camp? There was a fair chance of it, Nonetheless,
Family Bishop had to make for the designated rendezvous point.
Without the Tribe the Family would fare badly in the open
countryside; they simply knew too little about this world to survive
for long.

For a moment Killeen weighed his own personal fate against
the needs of the Family. He had seen quite enough of His
Supremacy's tactics already. They were ruinous used against Cybers,
and probably not highly effective against mechs, either. His Supremacy's
victories had come with mech allies, after all. And 'after
Killeen's insubordination on the battlefield, His Supremacy would
certainly put the Bishops in the thick of things in the future,
where he could keep better control of them--whether or not
Killeen still lived to lead them.

He sighed, and Shibo lying beside him cast a wise, pensive


TIDES OF LIGHT


227


look. She knew what he was stewing about, yet said nothing. He
took out a chaw and bit into its dense, sugary grains. Cermo came
in with the rear guard. Killeen scowled at him, his usual signal
that he was not in the mood to talk. He needed to think.

On balance, he had to lead them to the rendezvous. It was to
be at a mountaintop, apparently a site having to do with one of the
locals' revered religious symbols. There they could meet the supply
train. Then, if they decided to leave the crazed leadership of
His Supremacy, they could slip away with full packs and bellies.
That was worth risking his personal fate; in the end, no true Cap'n
could decide otherwise.

His Arthur Aspect observed:


One should expect religious fervor, even rabid fundamentalism,
in the face of such calamity as these people have
endured. Be mindful that their ardor reflects an underlying
fear they can barely contain. They have been rooted from
their homes--


"So were we," Killeen muttered.


Yes, but we have dwelled for years in the comfort of Argo.


"We didn't turn crazy, not even in the worse times on
Snowglade."


What about Hatchet? Wasn't he unbalanced?


Killeen remembered the closed, tight look to Hatchet's face.
"Naysay--just plain mean. Thought he could strike a deal with
meehs, when all the time they were usin' him, planning a zoo for
us all." '


I won't belabor such distinctions. But do notice that the
lribe also experienced apparent victories over the mechs
when the intercity conflicts gave them an advantage. lhe
crushing advent of the Cybers followed, however. Plus
the disemboweling of their planet. Their strong reaction, their
need for a perfect leader who embodies their hopes, who
tells them that he speaks for God--such an effect is quite
within the bounds of human responses.


"You makin' excuses? This guy says he's God."


	228
	Gregory Benford


I merely point out that the Tribe can still be effective, and it
may not be best for the Family to leave it.


Irritably Killeen called up his Ling Aspect and asked, "What
you say?"


A smart Captain plays to his superiors' foibles.


"Foibles?"


A slight frailty in character. Staff discipfine is essential, and I
cannot fault a commander who disciplines a Captain--


Killeen jammed the small voice back into its recess and stood
up. They should move on before the light gave out completely. The
rest had made his feet more sensitive. He would have to march
awhile before some numbness returned to them.

Lined faces watched him with interest. One in particular, that
of the woman Telamud, seemed to blaze with energy. She got up
and walked stiffly, legs straight. Eyes open wide and blinking, she
looked around. Experimentally she rocked to the side and then
flexed her knees, as if trying out her calf-shocks. She walked
again, tongue flicking out to taste the air, breathing rapidly. Some
others had noticed by this time. A man stood and asked her if she
felt all right. Killeen wondered if she had a sudden fever. Telamud
looked around as if she had never seen any of them before. She
began to shake. Killeen feared she was going into Aspect storm,
her riding intelligences overwhelming her. She shook harder, a
low gurgling coming out of her open mouth. Then she fell, completely
limp.

Telamud's friends examined her, slapped her, tried to bring
her around. The woman came back slowly, groggy and ashen. She
could say nothing, but she seemed able to walk all right.

As Killeen looked around, drops began to patter through
the decks of leaves and branches above. It was a pale green rain,
alien and cold, curtains of it moving like filmy lace among the
trees.

The Family lay sprawled as though dead. Some had already

taken food from their packs, as though settling down for the night.
"Heysay, rain," someone said drowsily.

Another answered, "Never thought I'd hate rain. Never got
enough on Snowglade. But now..."


TIDES OF LIGHT


229


"Water above, water below," Killeen said. "More in my blisters
than's comin' out that sky."

A man called, "It'll keep the Cybers in, I'll bet."

Killeen shook his head. This futile logic had no basis, but the
fatigue in the man's voice was deep. He called up his inventory of
old tales and said, "You 'member Jesus? The Great Cap'n? Well,
I'm greater, 'cause I'm walkin' on more water than he did."

The small joke got a laugh, and he cajoled a few to their feet.
They were too tired to resist very much, but Killeen knew he
could not get much more out of them before their reserves would
be gone. Then he would face real rebellion.

"C'mon," he called. "Step proud! Double rations t'night."

Their mood lightened a little and the column moved off slowly
into the gathering murk.


Quath pursued the Noughts with a strangely mixed glee.

She enjoyed the mad dashes she could perform, racing from
one fleeing band of panicked Noughts to the next, chopping and
blasting and cutting them. It was a consummation of her plan, and
a great joy.

Yet vagrant impulses shot through her. She felt glancing pain
as the Noughts died. She suffered a momentary trembling fever as
they fled in fear.

This unsettled her, slowed her arms fractionally, veered her
aim. So Beq'qdahl cried, <You're overshooting! Correct!>

<Yes, yes,> Quath replied, hoping none of the podia noticed
how shaken she was.

<Pursue them!> came the joint cry of the armed podia.
Quath joined their rush.

Up ragged ridgelines, through gray meeh ruins and gutted
green forests, and down onto the smashed steppes of this frae-tured
place, they harried the stupid, witless Noughts.

Quath's adroit plan had worked. Her captured Nought, when
released in the area where the largest packs of Noughts were
thought to prowl, immediately sought out its fellows. A tiny
device attached to the Nought gave a locating signal several times
a day. Quath had tracked them and had guessed their intention of
again attacking some of the magnetic field stations which controlled
the movements of the Cosmic Circle.

And now the trap she had laid for them had sprung, catching
thousands of the mites. As Quath made haste through a meeh
factory, searching for hiding Noughts, the Tukar'ramin's voice sprang
fullblown into her aura.

*You are a true fierce and canny sort,* she said. *I have
observed your a&nirable scheme unfolding. Be careful that you do
not risk yourself in these brute encounters, however.*


230


	TIDES OF LIGHT
	231


<We are weapons-augmented, vast one. Fear not,> Quath
replied.

*I can bring you glad news, too. The second of the encoded
slabs, which you extracted from the Nought ship, is now decoded
as well as can be done. It is truly valuable.*

Quath felt Beq'qdahl, who was clambering up a nearby slope,
seethe with amber-shot jealousy. She pretended not to notice.

<Oh? I am made twofold happy. But . . . who translated them?>
*The Illuminates. *

Quath's subminds babbled in a crossfire of astonishment.

*They have deftly picked their way through the thicket of

compressed meaning in those slabs.*

<The Illuminates delve here?>

*These two slabs bear directly upon large matters.*

<You speak directly to them . . . now?>

*Yes, across the span of suns. I have received instructions from
all those Illuminates within light-travel time of this system. Two
are here, overseeing our orbital constructions. Even now they
debate among themselves.*

<Do the Illuminates know the answers that vex and try me so

much?> Quath blurted.

*Quath--*

<What of death? Is there meaning to what we do, meaning
beyond our final endings? What of-->

*The answers we all believe--the Summation--the Illuminates
themselves formulated. That wisdom is ancient indeed. Now they
do not delve into such matters. They ponder how to accomplish
our grand purpose. Remember what I revealed to you before,
about your own nature?*

Puzzled, Quath paused to reflect. At the same time she plowed
through a stand of twisted trees, their bark stripped (eaten by
Noughts? she wondered). She searched for targets. But Beq'qdahl
had already bagged the two Noughts Quath had been trailing, and
now loudly trumpeted her puny victory out of ego-need. Quath
turned and raced down a talus slope. <Of course, I recall all that

the Tukar'ramin has given unto me. I am a Philosoph, you say.>
*You approach this subject with hesitation?*
<Yes . . . I wonder, why am I singled out?>

*The fateful cast of genes. We incorporated facets of that
ancient race; they surface perpetually in us.*

<I would rather be a pure and rage-filled fighter!>


	232
	Gregory Benford

*You cannot be purely anything, Quath. That is the legacy of

that lost species--to see each aspect of life as mitigated.*

<But I do not like it so!>

*No matter. Your pain, your indecision, your questing after
higher answers--that is your trial and labor and destiny.*

<I would rather be sure!>

*Certainty is the lot of those who do not ask questions. Such
are nearly all the podia. We have mastered the material world, we
ken its workings. But we do not puzzle at the questions you do,
Quath. *

<Would that I were like you!> Quath shouted in a strange
lonely anger.

*As a Philosoph you should now know that the traits long ago
genetically implanted will manifest themselves in you in ways that
are unpredictable and disturbing. Further, they shall increase
with age. You may display the inborn traits of ancient beings, or a
combination of podia nature and theirs.*

<I see no way to answer my questions. >

*There are other, perhaps even grander issues, Quath. Of
such matters I bring news. The slabs you brought to me contain
enough information for the Illuminates to contemplate a daring
adventure, something the podia have never dared brave: a voyage
to the very center of the galaxy.*

<But all the texts say that is impossible--you remarked so
yourself. The mechs muster enormous forces there.> Quath clambered
through a mire of muck and ripped soil. Great quakes had
torn these mountains savagely.

*The slabs tell of a time when organic beings--the ones who
wedded their genes to ours, perhaps--ventured close to the
black hole at the very center. There may be a way in, free of meeh
interference. It will require all our resources, however.*

Quath stopped beside a ravine. In the forest beyond were the
humans she was tracking. The telltale she had planted flashed for
a microsecond; her own Nought was among this company. But she
could not think of the hunt now.

<I volunteer my sinew and soul to such an enterprise.>

*That may indeed be necessary.*
Something in the Tukar'ramin's tone made Quath inquire,
<We . ·· could learn much at Galactic Center?>

*One hopes. The meehs disguise their activities in the inner
few light-years. For millennia the Illuminates have wondered at
their incessant collecting of pulsars, their veiled experiments. We


	TIDES OF LIGHT
	233


can scarcely hope to extinguish such beings if we do not know
their deepest, perhaps most dangerous abilities.*

<I have only meager abilities. I know of nothing of->
*You have something we must possess.*
<What? How is that possible?>
*Your Nought. *

<I . . . I do not... >

*I sensed your small passenger while you were still in the
Hive. *

<I... Iintendedto...>

*Know that I fathom your crosscurrents and dark broodings,
Quath. We have not had a Philosoph in the Hive for a great while.

I decided to let you follow your inner compass.*

<My Nought...>

*Perhaps you kept it as a pet; podia have done such before. It
is no crime. Indeed, your secret keeping of this mite is ample
evidence of the mysterious wisdom that comes, often unbidden, to

a Philosoph. Care for your pet well.*
<No, I...>
*Yes?*

<I do not have it. >

*What?*

<I am using it to track the other Noughts. >

Alarm shot through the Tukar'ramin's projected aura. *The
Illuminates themselves now need it! It was a principal on the ship

that brought them here--a vessel we must have.*
<But I-->
*Find it!*

With that command the Tukar'ramin's aura blew away as though
a breeze had taken it. Quath had the sense of the Tukar'ramin's
hurrying to convey this information to some distant place.

She should have felt some elation at this sudden turn. The
slabs she and Beq'qdahl had found now proved more important
than any fabulous dream. Her Nought was somehow a key because
of its ship. Quath's transgression hiding the Nought and
lying by omission to the Tukar'ramin--had been lightly passed
over.

Yet she felt somber and vexed as she quick-stepped toward the
forest ahead. If the Illuminates did not know how to answer
Quath's questions, what authority in all the podia could? Was it
possible that the terrible vision of an utterly empty and meaningless
universe was unquestioned, even at the highest levels?


	234
	Gregory Benford

Restless, Quath east forward with her aura, hoping to pick up
some pinprick taste of her Nought. Finding it would not be easy if
she relied on the few quick flashes its telltale emitted in a day.
She had slipped it into the crude equipment it wore, elemental
augmentations like a crude parody of the podia's sleek lags.

She had never thought that she would need to find that particular
Nought again, only the pack it joined. What an irritant!

She caught an electro-savor of Noughts spread through the
dense, leafy mass ahead. Here in the open it was difficult to taste
whether one of them was hers. She amped the signals--and
gasped.

Ugly horizontals and verticals everywhere. Unchanging, muted
light. And mixed in with these blunt perceptions came a torrent of
strong surges.

Silent colorations of fatigue and pain. Bitter red smells of fear.
Yellows of shame.

Rasping pride. Banging, loud confusion. Acrid envy, livid
malice, and incomprehensible muddy longings.

All seething, unknown, under an oily smear of senses. It was
difficult to believe that these Noughts were so unconscious!

Cryptic semisentience floated through these minds. They suffered
continually from forking senses. Their entire thought-train
was constantly interrupted for messages detailing their surroundings,
their hungers, their incessant sexual signaling (even when
exhausted!)--their tumbled, vivid, small worlds.

Quath gingerly focused her aura down to a needlepoint and
thrust it toward one particular Nought who lay several hills ahead.
Was this hers?

She could not tell, awash in the scattershot jostling of quick,
coarse perceptions. In this sticky swamp she could not even
separate its subminds. Carefully she held its muscles rigid, made
it stand up from where it crouched. Did this feel familiar?

One of its upper limbs was pressing a soft thing against
its face. No, into the face. An awful salty burst told her that
this was a mouth, perhaps its principal one. Certainly it enjoyed
an enormously augmented tasting system, for the food cast piercing
rivulets of lava-hot bile all over the interior of the mouth-pouch.

Its fellows were staring at the Nought. She perceived that they
would find alarming the act of spitting the food out onto the
ground, where it could perhaps burn the foliage. These Noughts
were gaunt; wasting of food would arouse suspicion. She must not


	TIDES OF LIGHT
	235


frighten them before she found her own Nought, or they might all
flee in a panic. Quath forced the thing to swallow the stuff, just to
get the taste away.

What could this primitive form do? She had not entered her
own Nought in this way; she was getting better at it. Curiosity
egged her on.

She made it stand on one foot, then another. The sensation of
bipedal instability was strangely exhilarating. She made a pod take
a step, caught the body as it began to fall, and then brought the
other leg up to join the first. This sensation of courting disaster,
falling and catching oneself, carried a delicious excitement.

She stepped again, and again. The legs carried the impacts of
walking upward and she quickly learned to absorb these with the
cumbersome knees. A single knobby columnar spine felt as though
it rode on a cushioned pediment of hips and buttocks.

Worse, it ached at the lower back. The muscles there were
firmly knotted, as though this was a constant condition. What poor
design! And they were so unimaginative that they simply tolerated
such irksome pains!

She rotated the head and saw a surprising proportion of what
she knew had to lie outside the Nought--but missing the fine-grained
texture Quath knew, and overlaid vith freightings of
emotion.

This Nought could scarcely see anything without immediately
reacting to it. Passing a low bush with tiny red berries brought
gushing forth a hard hunger. The shaded sky above demanded to
be searched for threats. A moist breeze crept into its primary
nostrils and visions of rain sounded warnings. A nearby face excited
memories of happier times, laughter, a warm fire--

But Quath saw that this approaching face emitted sounds which
disturbed this host-Nought. The face gave quick signals of alarm.
A wrinkling just below the top hairline. Its single mouth parted
and lips slightly reddened, bringing teeth further into view. A
narrowing of the space between the hair-hedges above the eyes.

Apparently Quath was not managing this Nought well, despite
her exciting discovery of two-podded walking. She thought she
had done that quite expertly. How well could such a rudimentary
construction perambulate, after all?

This nearing Nought said something incomprehensible. Its
primary message lay in the timbre of the speech, rising higher as
the crude acoustic stutterings came faster. Quath did not want to
frighten away this pack before she had a chance to explore it. And


	236
	Gregory Benford

there was some deeper element about them that she could not
fathom. Even clotted subminds should have appeared by now.
They must be oddly integrated.

She put aside the matter and decided to leave the Nought. No
need to alarm its fellows, after all. She disconnected smoothly. In
an instant she was back inside her own electro-aura.

Now rain came sweeping toward her, warming and oddly pleasurable.
It reminded her of the tantalizing food-streams of the
Hive. She basked in the soft caress of wind and air. Then she
wearily crept forward. This business of finding her particular
Nought might prove difficult. She regretted not giving it a steady,
bright telltale. She had feared that even a dull-witted being would
eventually notice. Very well; she crept on through the splashing
torrent.


THREE


It was sunset again before they scaled the last foothills and straggled
across the breast of the mountain.

Killeen watched a ruddy sun sink beyond the next peak in the
chain that marched up from the south. He had been slow to adjust
his senses to this planet and to realize that it had milder seasons
than Snowglade. Its lesser gravity and shorter days threw off his
rhythms. The effect told on them all, he thought, as he watched
the Bishop rear guard struggle up the slope of dark granite. A
chilly wind had come up after the rainstorm of the night before,
making marching harder. Once water got into their leggings,
nothing worked quite right until they had a chance to stop and
work on metal-shaping. But there had been no time for that.
Killeen had cajoled and ordered and joshed, keeping the Bishops
moving across silted mud and wrecked forests.

He looked back now, searching for Cyber pursuit. His feet
yearned to be set free of his boots, and he compromised by sitting
on a boulder and releasing the pressure-catches of his shocks. The
relief would have made him sigh, but Cermo was passing nearby
and Killeen's sense of discipline kept his lips closed.

The land had been ribbed and ridged anew by the quakes. A
river below was busily digging a fresh channel, having been tossed
from its old one. Geology seemed to have hastened its pace, as if
in fear of more disasters. The rain had clogged innumerable new
streams with mud, and they spread like hands with snaky fingers
across the plains, feeding brown lakes. Drowned stands of spindly
trees poked from the waters, the slanted sun catching their doomed
topknots.


We are near the equator, so at least we have not suffered
the cooling effects occasioned by the cosmic string. It seems
to have stripped away some of the atmosphere, so there is
less insulation against the cold of space.


237


	238
	Gregory Benford


"Thought the land fallin' would heat things up," he answered his
Arthur Aspect.


The loss of air has a larger immediate effect. Deep heat
must diffuse out from the interior. However, we can soon
expect another excavation from the core. Note how the
string pulses with more energy.


Killeen peered up into the darkening sky and saw the razor-sharp
curve against the mottled colors of the interstellar clouds. It
had not moved in the sky all day, which meant that the Cybers
were rotating it with the planet, If it began to spin they would
have to prepare for quakes or worse.


Only for dwellers in cities or Citadels are quakes a threat. In
the open your greatest risk would be landslides, and I
expect most loose soil has already been shaken free.


"Maybe, 'less this whole mountain decides it's better off in the
valley."

He heard gravel scattering down the slope nearby, as if in
forewarning, and turned to find Shibo coming from the advance
party.

"Tribe pickets up ahead," she reported. They had been keeping
corem silence since emerging onto the mountain face, because
line-of-sight reeeivers could pick them up at a great distance. It
meant greatly slower information flow, but Killeen felt too conspicuous
here already. Every pebble could be a Cyber telltale,
waiting for a foot to step on it or merely set down nearby.

"Police up the column," he ordered. "Let 'era see us march in
all formed up, gear in place."

He was proud of the Bishops as they passed through the Tribal
lines, headed for the crown of the mountain. The Families were
spread out on the jutting slabs of silver-flecked granite below the
summit, but Killeen did not stop to pitch camp. He marched the
Bishops straight into the center, where the large tent was already
erected and billowing in the cold winds. Killeen gestured to his
lieutenants to flank him and did not slow their step until they
reached the broad clearing at the very peak of the mountain,
where the tent flapped loudly.

His Supremacy emerged to meet them. Standing beside his
ott:icers, he gazed stony-faced with empty, expressionless eyes as
Killeen gave him the traditional salute.


TIDES OF LIGHT


239


"You withdrew without my order," the man said abruptly,
without returning the salute

"I felt my Family would be overrun," Killeen said formally.
"Who could outrun those who turn tail so quickly?"
"We took large losses. Eight--"

"All Families sustained such casualties," His Supremacy said.
Then he repeated it loudly, toiling out each word. People heard
and came running.

Killeen watched as the Bishops were engulfed by the Tribe's
greater numbers. There was going to be a show.

"That is the way . . . we must follow . . . if we are to defeat
these monsters." His Supremacy boomed out the long sentence
with relish, a clarion call. An exalted expression transfixed his face
with passion as he turned to Killeen. "Other Families have not
bellyached about their dead. They simply bury their heroes and
carry on, obeying."

"We buried no one," Killeen said cautiously. "They were left
on the field."

"Ha! The Niners brought out over a dozen dead."

"How many'd they lose doing it?"

A rustle from the gathering crowd. His Supremacy scowled.

"We do not count those losses as different. All fell in the noble
cause."

"I'd rather get hit on the attack, not haulin' bodies around."
"So I'm sure you would, Cap'n. I have noticed that you have
little respect for our time-honored methods. Nor do you have any
sense of your transgressions."

Killeen started to reply and held back. This was to be a public
humiliation. Or worse. He tried to see a way to mollify the short
man whose face had a transfixed, glassy quality.

"Further, I have noticed that you have verged on disrespect
toward My Holiness. I have until this moment been kind enough
to ascribe this lapse to your origins around a foreign star."

Killeen could not resist agreeing. "Yeasay, that might be it."
His Supremacy's eyes lost their odd blankness. A dark look
narrowed them to menacing slits. "Perhaps you think that God's
rules do not apply to foreign Families?"

Killeen's effort to catch his tart reply made his jaw go tense.
Then he said slowly, "Of course not. Your tongue is different from
ours. I have trouble speaking in it, maybe my meaning gets
garbled. We humans been separated a long time, 'member.
How . . ." He clenched his jaw again, then went on. "How could


	240
	Gregory Benford

anybody possibly imagine that I lack respect for His Supremacy?
For the greatest mind in the history of our race?"

The short, swarthy man nodded as though this last lavish
compliment were simple fact. Killeen was relieved to see that
fiatout flattery did not bring forth the slightest suspicion. Such talk
was probably a steady daily diet for this man who thought he was
God Himself.

"You have a strange manner of showing your reverence, Cap'n.
The battle was going well."

"They swatted us like flies."

"Every battle costs us--that is the glory of it! Only by great
sacrifice can we win great victories. That is the point which
eluded the shortsighted Elders and Cap'ns before me, and which

only Divine intervention, in the form of myself, has countered."
"I see, Your Supremacy."

"It is our fierceness, our sacred rage, our Divine fearlessness
of mortal wounds and even of death, that places us above the
monsters and demons vhich curse our motherworld!"

This brought a shout of agreement from the Tribe. Hoteyed,
grinning, the mob was mesmerized. Their nostrils flared with
anticipation. Killeen joined in their cheering tardily and so did his
lieutenants. But His Supremacy noticed this and abruptly held his
hands up, silencing the crowd.

"I see a slowness in you, Cap'n. A reluctance to follow the

commandments of My Holy Self."

"Naysay, I--"

His Supremacy's eyes flashed. "Naysay?"

"Well, I--"

"The God of Sacred Rage does not like this word naqsay.
Especially from a Cap'n who runs. I think you speak it far too
much. Knees!"

Officers instantly and expertly struck the back of Killeen's
knees so that he dropped forward to the ground. Someone pinned
his hands behind his back, lifting them so that he bowed involuntarily.
He looked up at the pendants that swayed from His Supremacy's
broad, scarlet belt. One was a tiny carved human head,
grinning. Another seemed to be a fragment of a mech carapace
fashioned to resemble a long stalk from which a large seed sprouted.

"You realize that bodies left on the field are used by Cybers?"

"Yeasay." Killeen could not trust himself to say more; sarcasm
crept in too easily.

"They infest our heroic dead with eggs. Demon eggs!"


	TIDES OF LIGHT
	241


"Yeasay."

"Yet, knowing this foul fact, you chose to disobey."

"Ah, I thought only 'bout my Family's safety."

"And how will you feel when you see demons crawling the
hills, demons born of your abandoned dead?"

Killeen could think of nothing to say to this, so he simply
bowed his head.

"A portion of my godliness urges that you be erased from our
cause. I could order you to the spit, to abide there until the
corrupt fluids have drained from you."

The crowd murmured with animal anticipation. Killeen saw
Toby begin to edge a hand closer to his rifle. Killeen shook his
head slightly. His son reluctantly let his hand drop. Killeen caught
Shibo's eye and saw there something he could not deflect. She
stood still and compressed in a way he knew well.

"We Bishops," he said hurriedly, "we hunger for your cause."
"Fiercely? Despite the sky demon we all witnessed?"

"A deep hunger. Yeasay, yeasay." He made himself shout,
"Show us the righteousness."

Catcalls and jeers came from the crowd.

A puzzled expression swept over His Supremacy as his eyes
went blank. His lips trembled and he gazed up as though seeking
celestial advice. The mob rustled. A chilly wind swept across the
mountaintop.

Finally His Supremacy said, "Yet generosity is sometimes

wise. Mercy can flow from me as well as punishment, Cap'n."
The crowd groaned with disappointment.

"Still, I cannot allow a Family to suffer the guidance of such a
Cap'n."

Killeen opened his mouth, closed it. The man's moods flickered
so fast Killeen could not keep up.

"So! I shall appoint a new Cap'n of the Bishops. In time of
trial and this is surely such---I retain that right. You"--he pointed

at Jocelyn--"you will be the new Cap'n. Step forward!"
Jocelyn took a pace forward and saluted smartly.
Hands released Killeen and helped him to his feet.
"I expect instant obedience in all things."
"Yessir!"

"We begin planning immediately for our next battle, a great
struggle which shall turn the tide against the legions of monsters.
And this time the Bishops shall lead."

"Very good, Your Supremacy," Jocelyn said. "We are honored."


	242
	Gregory Benford

"Prepare, Bishops!" His Supremacy called. "And tonight, celebrate
with your holy exalted Tribal fellows the victories to come!"

He waved her away. She stepped back, bowing. The crowd
yelled halfheartedly and began to break up. Bishops glanced at
one another uneasily.

Jocelyn came to where Killeen stood, still unmoving. Only
when she came to attention next to him did he realize that he
should return to the ranks. Mutely he swiveled and went. Behind
him His Supremacy went on, announcing the celebration of some
religious event. The idea of carrying on a festival that evening,
after the withering losses every Family had taken, gave Killeen a
bitter taste. Family members, shocked by the abrupt change in
Cap'ns, stared at him as he passed their sharply squared-out
squads. Some in the formation gave him hidden signs of salute and
others nodded in respect. The world seemed crisp and fresh to
him as he just kept walking on blistered feet.


FOUR


Quath hurried up a steep raw cliff. She should not expose herself
so, but she needed to search these mountain passes quickly for
her Nought. She had thought she was following it closely, but
then she had come upon a large pack and had to slip away to avoid
detection.

The Tukar'ramin agreed that she should avoid alarming the
Nought packs until she was sure of snaring the right Nought, the
one who knew the workings of the Nought ship from antiquity. To
be certain her Nought was not caught in the ambushes that her
fellow podia were springing on the fleeing stragglers, the Tukar'ra-min
had called off all attacks. Now all attention turned to Quath's
search.

But where was the Nought? Its telltale had not reported on
time. Probably it was damaged.

This complication irritated Quath. She cast her electro-aura
outward and caught fragrances of Nought lacing the senso-air of
the mountains. They were congregating here, yes. What an opportunity!
The podia could annihilate these pests by the thousands,
once Quath had her catch safely encased.

This vantage, scrabbling up the rough face of canted rock, gave
her an umbrella coverage of the jumbled, sharp peaks of the
entire range. She quelled the simmering panic among her subminds
that height brought on. Only her sure grip saved her from succumbing
to her deep fear of heights.

Strangely, here at the planet's equator the effect of the
Syphoning had thrust tortured crust still higher. It had compressed
the basaltic underpinnings, splitting great seams and poking
them into the underbelly rock of the range. Far away she saw
a cone spitting sooty gouts into air already laden with churned
dust. Calamity had cut broad swaths through the forests and
plateau brambles. Mech mines had caved in. Their railways were
smashed and buried.


243


	244
	Gregory Benford

	All good, but the rubble gave pests myriad hiding places.

Quath clambered with six legs onto a high notch in the mountain.

The main gathering of Noughts was one peak farther away, and she

hoped they were as dull-sensed as they had appeared to be in the

	battle, or else they might detect her here.

	*Quath!* came the Tukar'ramin's call. 'I bring grave word.*

	<My Nought?> Quath broke her communications silence in

	alarm. <Has someone killed it?>

	*No, far worse. There is conflict among the Illuminates.*

	<What. · .? How...?> Chaos reigned in Quath. <But they

	hold the supreme wisdom of our kind!>

	*Yes.*

	<How can they disagree?>

	'I cannot fathom it myself, young podder, and I am far more

	skilled than you. This is the first time I have ever been privy to

	any Illuminate proceedings. To tap into a small fraction of the flow

	is to sense vast, sliding conjectures as tides in one's very soul. Do

	not ask me to describe it, for I cannot. Conflict rages among them

	like the smashing of suns in my mind's sky. I--I am still recover-

	ing my teetering equilibrium.*

		<I understand,> Quath said, though she did not. The

	Tukar'ramin's signals carried a sucking undercurrent of doubt and

	gray fear.

		*Some Illuminates do not want any foray into Galactic Center.

	They wax fiercely.*

		<But ... why ...?> Quath trembled at her audacity to

	question as great a being as the Tukar'ramin about the far grander

	majesties of the Illuminates.

		*They sense a larger design behind this. A mech artifice,

	perhaps, to draw us into the Center.*

		<But that is our historic aim, you once said.> Quath was

	careful to couch her objection in terms of the Tukar'ramin's own

	dictates.

		'I had been so told, and until this moment I had never

	doubted. You are a Philosoph, Quath--you cannot know the won-

	derful shelter that we unmitigated intelligences know 	*

Quath
had a thin glimmering of what the Tukar'ramin felt. To have
that certainty shattered by the spectacle of the Illuminates' differing
among themselves must be a terrifying experience. Quath felt
sympathy for the Tukar'ramin--and abruptly felt how far she had come
from the Quath of her simple Hive days. To feel anything but

	TIDES
OF LIGHT	245


unblemished
awe for the Tukar'ramin would have been incomprehensible
only days ago.
*Other
Illuminates think it is our true historic destiny to use these
trifling Noughts, who by pernicious accident carry a key to the
inner region.* The Tukar'ramin's muted carrier frequencies
ran
somber, muddled, tossed with flecks of pale doubt.
<What
design do the Illuminates see in all this?>
*They
differ. They have studied all these events and some feel
that
the Noughts were sent here as part of a larger work.* <What
kind?>
*A
concept we do not fully understand. Some mechs do things for
inexplicable reasons. They term it "art." Such works seemingly have
no use.*
<Then
we need not worry about them, > Quath said practically.
*Not
necessarily. Some Illuminates feel the Noughts came in
the
ancient craft as an aid in stabilizing the meeh city conflicts.* <So
they are our enemies, then.>
*Perhaps.
Like us, the meehs use a hierarchical system of command.
The entities controlling this world before our arrival were
low on the mech ladder of being. This was a mere tendril, an operation
at the periphery of meeh interest.*
Quath
suppressed her momentary shock at this news. All along she
had supposed their efforts here were of great import, driving terror
into meehs everywhere.
*In
such eases, control must be delegated to the local level, and
liberal use must be made of the stimulus of competition among
subunits. *
<Clarify,
please.> Quath sent undertones of confusion. *Efficiencies
arise out of carefully regulated conflict. Note how much
more diligent were your own strivings, small one, when you were
stimulated by your rivalry with your sister, Beq'qdahl.*
How
little had escaped Tukar'ramin's attention! Had she engineered
every detail of Quath's life?
*This
use of inter-unit striving is nearly universal. The meehs had
a unified design for this world. But individual meeh cities and complexes
here were allowed---even encouraged--to compete for resources,
for challenging roles. Even the eelIs of all living things act
in such a manner, jostling each other, seeking nutrients and higher
tasks. Delicate chemical balances keep the process under control.
When it goes well, the whole organism flourishes.*
<The
meehs were weak on this planet. Are you saying this process
broke down here?> Quath recalled the plentiful, livid

	246
	Gregory Benford

signs of inter-city battle on the planet's surface. Such scars did not
look at all "well-regulated."
*Indeed. With mechs, as living things, there is a danger to
such a process. These tensions can spill over into greedy excess. It
is known as cancer. A wild burgeoning of ego--of blind aggression
by a part against the greater whole. The mid-level mech minds on
this world began striving in deadly earnest. They employed new,
vicious weapons against each other.*
Quath experienced a leap of understanding. <The Noughts!>
She detected a rumble of satisfaction coming from Tukar'ramin,
accompanied by something else . . . a hint, perhaps, of respect?
*Indeed, young one. Your nimbleness of mind is pleasing.
Noughts had long infested the interstices of mech culture as no
more than irritants, occasionally employed for small purposes by
lesser mech entities--more often, seen as pests to be squashed
underfoot. Until the cancer began. Then they proved powerfully
useful to one of the warring sides. The result was catastrophic.
Their alliance weakened mech power in this system.*
<A weakness we exploited.>
*Just so. It is why the Illuminates risked sending our expedition,
with the precious Great String, to this place so near the
fringes of mech power.*
Quath felt she was beginning to sense some of the scope of this
tale. It was vast, intimidating.
<Have not the greater mech minds, farther into the Core,
noticed this setback?>
*Certainly. But the cancer spread so rapidly, and our might
descended upon this system so quickly, that we were able to
establish ourselves before they could act to eradicate the cancer.
With the string at our disposal, we defeated all expeditions sent to
"cure" this wayward mech colony. And the Illuminates estimated
that economics would prevent any truly massive counterstrike.
This outpost was too unimportant to merit any such major
undertaking. *
<The Illuminates are vastly wise. >
*Nevertheless. Mechs elsewhere may have sought to send aid
to their brothers here in more subtle forms, using sneaky tactics to
slip medicine under our cordon of guard.*
Quath felt a burst of insight. <The other Noughts! The ones
who arrived in the little ship. They were sent as medicine?... To interfere with the cancer?>
*That is what is believed by some of the Illuminates--those

TIDES OF LIGHT

247

who see the vessel as a deadly missile, sent by our enemies,
carrying agents harmful to our cause. It is why I received orders
to sear them. It is why, at first, I sent you and your sister after
them, to destroy them one and all.*
Tukar'ramin paused, then resumed in lower tones.
*But now other Illuminates contend that these strange new
Noughts are special in yet another way. That theirs is a destiny
linked somehow with ours. It is all so very confusing. Evidence on
their ship points in both directions at once. There is a clear sign of
mech design in their flight profile and in shipboard traces. Yet
those ancient slabs you found have caused many Illuminates to
believe that there is much more involved.*
Quath's subminds whirled with the complexity of the choices.
It reminded her of the queer conflicting emotions she had felt
while hunting the Noughts out on the hardscrabble planet surface. <I... what is it we are to do, then?>
She detected an echo of her own confusion resonating openly
from Tukar'ramin, and found that more disturbing than anything
else.
*This is a crisis unlike any in my long life, little Quath. I obey
a majority of those Illuminates who are within range to hear and
judge on these matters. Since this mission itself was a venturesome
one, that majority consists of several who believe in daring,
in doing, in taking swift advantage of the opportunities hinted at
in the ancient slabs.*
<But why...?>
Tukar'ramin shook her great form, rejecting the question before
it was spoken.
*What I know is how. The rnde laws of matter and light, of
blunt mechanics and silky thermodynamic flows.*
<Yes, of course. And deeply do you know them. >
*I do not know why. That is not the strength of our race, as
you must realize by now, little Philosoph.*
<You fear the whipping winds of indecision?>
*Of course. You did too, once. But I have observed the genes
of the old, dead race emerge in you, gathering, reaching out. You
will know better what to do in this grave whirl of chaos.*
<In conflict lies defeat. If the podia reflect the division among
the Illuminates-->
*Yes. Then we are doomed. Only our single-minded ferocity
has given us sway over this world and others.*


	248
	Gregory Benford

<Without that we fall to the mechs,> Quath said with absolute
certainty.

*Then let us decide this matter before the howling storm of
doubt besets us! Find your Nought and let us be done with it.*

Quath trumpeted a brave song-answer, clarion-clear and sharp.
The blaring sound was ceremonial. Yet it was oddly gripping--even
now, when she knew the falsity of all such gestures before
the immense questions surrounding the podia, encircling all life.

Newly resolute, she lumbered up a fissured scarp. She found a
crevice near the brow of the peak, as close as she could approach
the Nought gathering without revealing herself.

Deftly she probed the night. She brushed against a faint reek
of mechthought. It was clotted with pain and mired in agonized
confusion. Probably, she thought, the last of its kind in this area.
It seemed to be nearby, perhaps watching the Noughts as well. Its
typical jangling and zigzag patterns were somehow immersed in
Nought caterwauling, making it hard to find. Deal with it later,
then.

She probed again. Voices, pale hungers, timid musics--and
abruptly her electro-aura drew her into the field of a Nought. Its
essence resembled that of her own Nought, but Quath was unsure
if it was identical. A tender-skinned thing this was, excitable, with
spotty aches distributed through its body. It had the same stubby
but clever hands, knobby spine, the surprisingly long legs with
impossibly small pods to balance them on. It radiated feeling-tones
that rattled the air with their timbre, and Quath suddenly
understood.

This one had the same flavor as her own Nought, because it
had the same sex. How shockingly strange, to render the sexes so
differently. Why? This one was taller, heavier, with 1.8 times the
ratio of muscle mass to body mass than the last Nought she had
entered. Was that the intention--specialization of function through
altered bodies?

No, she sensed immediately that these differences descended
from the natural origins of the Nought. What selection pressure
would force such divergences among the sexes? What advantage
could it possibly have? On the contrary, Quath could see immediate
conflicts in such an arrangement. She had simply never suspected
that the strong Nought flavors meant sexual differences
--indeed, seemed to salt the very air between them.

So she had mistaken this Nought for her own because it, too,
was muskily male.


	TIDES OF LIGHT
	249


She held its muscles semirigid, as it seemed to want to do.
With some effort she made the unnecessarily complicated apparatus
of bones and interlocked muscles contract and stretch, successfully
bringing a tool toward the face. Smells wafted up into cavities
in the head, where recognition-flares called warm welcoming cries.

She let the semiautomatic systems of the Nought bring the
food into the primary mouth. She allowed it to chew. Sense-sounds
exploded in Quath's electro-aura, which she understood
were the sensations of taste that this creature enjoyed. The savor
of masticating food swam through it, building notes upon submel-odies,
making a small symphony of gratifying song.

Three others of its kind were gathered near. A primitive naked
oxidation bristled yellow-hot at the center of their little group.
The Nought basked in its infrared emissions.

Acoustic patterns played through the Nought's head. Quath
saw that this was their only means of communicating at short range.
Had they kept this as a nostalgic tribute to their early forms? Or--startling
thought--were they still this elemental?

Quath tried to sample the subminds of this Nought but found a
mire. Where were the kernels of subsidiary intelligence? The
interior bramble was too confusing to sort out now. She turned to
more practical matters.

The Nought could say nothing without Quath's taking more
control. What was discourse like in this ancient acoustic mode?

Gingerly she released the mouth. Curved the lips. Curled the
fat, soft tongue that--now that Quath concentrated on controlling

it--seemed to swell to fill the entire mouth.

"Food good," the Nought said.

Quath made sure the words carried a simple meaning. Less
chance of error that way. The two words had bloomed naturally in
the Nought's mind, streaming up from the concept-swamp. Quath
had inspected them carefully as the Nought's nervous system
began to transmit the instructions to the mouth to emit the
sounds.

Two words, very nearly the simplest possible message. A good
start. They complied with the language's rudimentary grammatical
rules, which were astonishingly one-dimensional, with hardly any
methods of adding shadings of meaning in parallel dimensions of
discourse. It was almost like speaking to a grooming mite in the
Hive.

But this experiment seemed to bring disturbed features bloom-


	250
	Gregory Benford


ing in the faces of the other Noughts. She decided to cover this
mistake, whatever it was.

"Mouth feels wrong," the Nought's mind reported saying. Was
something wrong with Quath's control? The other Noughts displayed
widened eyes, slightly opened mouths, and more of their
curious, archaic white teeth.

"Fire is good," she made the Nought say. Perhaps slightly
complicating the sentence would settle the problem. She took
special care to make the lips and tongue do their appointed jobs
well.

Among its companions Quath saw more sliding of muscles and
tendons beneath the sallow skin. These simple signals conveyed
tension but she did not know how to read them accurately. Small
furrowings deepened near the eyes. Mouth muscles struck lopsided
positions. Yes, a lack of symmetry was probably supposed to
communicate concern. Or anger, possibly including threats? It
was all so confusing.

And the), babbled at her, the acoustics coming in such a
mixture of modes that Quath could not tell if they were speaking
the same language as this Nought she had entered.

"I do not feel so good," Quath made the Nought say.

She elevated it to its precarious two feet and walked it away.
The others did not follow immediately. Good. Quath did not want
to provoke these simple beings into suspecting vhat was happening.

The rattle of acoustic complexity that pursued her confirmed
Quath's suspicions. Each of these things spoke a kind of idiosyncratic
self-language. Their mouths were so inelegantly and inexpertly
made that each minor slide and hitch of muscle and cartilage
rendered words differently.

How inefficient! Each word would have to be separately filed
and tagged in the quick-mind, associated with a remembered
word from some individual, and then in turn integrated with the
other words in their primitive linear sequences--all in order to
catch the meaning.

That would tie up enormous submind space. No wonder they
had never advanced beyond a one-dimensional model of language!

They started at the beginning of a word sequence and had to
march helplessly past every single sound group, before comprehending
the whole. Yet that was essential, given the endless
trouble they would have to go to in order to filter out and translate
the infinite variety of pronunciation that came flooding into their


TIDES OF LIGHT


251


knobby little ears. What conceivable purpose could there be to
allowing this unending variation?

Whatever the reason, the Noughts were still concerned. One
of them rose and called after Quath's possessed Nought. Quath
decided to vacate this being rather than try to repair the situation.

But when she tried to let go of the small mind, her connections
would not sever.

She yanked. Nothing.

Harder. Still she could not free herseltq.

Some dim perception was trying to leak up from her subminds
into foreground consciousness. No time for that. She had to get
free before the Noughts understood. They might then damage this
Nought in their tiny anger. If Quath was still present, the trauma
might surge back along her own electro-aura and do her injury.

She needed something to jar herself loose from the curiously
sticky, hampering aura of the Nought. She made the hands slide
over the body, seeking some useful tool. Ah, there.

Then she had a very good idea. She swiftly carried it out.


FIVE


As a simple Family member Killeen immediately joined in the
jobs essential to setting up camp. The Tribal supply train had
brought meager provisions partway up the granite slopes and each
Family had to haul their portion to their campground. The wind
was coming up stronger and colder with nightfall. His Supremacy's
tent dominated the broad stone crown of the mountain and
his staff was erecting some sort of altar in front of it.

Killeen and Shibo pitched their small tent in a narrow athwart
the gathering wind. Toby and Besen were nearby. They all divided
the skimpy food supply and figured how to cook the strangely
spiced ingredients.

Much of the Tribal supply had been stolen from mech stores.
The stuff was gooey and lime green; Killeen guessed that it had
been foodstuff that fed and lubricated the partly organic mech
components. Spices had been added to make it barely edible. A
thin reward for a day of hard marching. When Bishops protested,
Tribal officers said mysteriously that there would be more to eat
later that night. Small fires already dotted the mountainside with
flickering orange dabs. Killeen didn't like this and started telling
his people to stop.

"What're you doing?" Jocelyn asked at his elbow.

Without thinking Killeen said, "This high up, anything can get
an IR on these fires from down below. They'll stand out against
the sky."

"His Supremacy's allowed fires tonight. Celebration coming."
"I still think--"

"You're not Cap'n anymore," Jocelyn said sternly.

"I--well, look, we both know namin' Cap'n is a Family affair.
That lunatic doesn't have power over--"

"He's Elder. You heard him, he invoked emergency power,
And you'll do as you're told." Jocelyn folded her arms and smiled
coldly.


252


TIDES OF LIGHT


253


From her look, Killeen suspected that Jocelyn had already
willingly accepted some of the special "priestly" Aspect chips His
Supremacy had offered him upon his arrival. They were to be in
exchange for what the leader had termed "irrelevant" Aspects
from more recent times. The carrying of Aspeets was so personal,
by ancient tradition, that even the messianic Elder could do no
more than "strongly advise" this swap. Killeen had managed to
politely decline. Conversations with other Cap'ns had convinced
him that those chips reinforced the fanaticism of His Supremacy's
followers.

Was Joce]yn even now hearing new, forceful voices, urging her
to zeal and obedience? If so, how long before such Aspects were
installed into every member of Family Bishop? How many, then,
would have the force of will to retain independent thought? It was
rare, by all appearances, among the locals.

When he simply looked at her Jocelyn said angrily, "And I'll
thank you to deliver up the tactical systems chips."

This was at least reasonable. A Cap'n carried those into battle.
"You want 'era now?"

"I'11 send a techtype to pop 'cm."

KiIleen watched her go, feeling a churning in his gut.


A demotion from command can have serious psychological
consequences ....


He savagely suppressed Ling, before the ancient starship captain
could pronounce eulogy over his unsatisfactory tenure in
command. Killeen had other ghosts to do that for him.

Sitting on a rock, waiting for the tech-boy to arrive and strip
him of his last prerogatives, Killeen moodily recalled the other
Bishop Cap'ns he had known. Fanny--so sure and capable--who
died in his arms. Old Sal--who retired in honor and grace to make
way for one apparently born for leadership . . . Abraham.

Yes, Abraham himself. Whose smile was relaxed. Whose
laughter was earthy and infectious. Whose confidence was unshak-able.
Who led Family Bishop through times of grit and grinding
poverty, skillfully foiling the tricks of the mech exterminators,
showing them how to hold back the encroaching desert, guiding the
Family's labors until their Citadel was the flower of Snowglade.

Abraham had drawn little notice from mech civilization, leading
precise, efficient raids which took from the mechs no more
than needed. He had taken just enough to maintain a level which---'ff


	254
	Gregory Benford


inestimably lower even than the High Citadels of Arthur's time--nevertheless
afforded dignity and grace. One in which even luxury
was not unknown. Killeen recalled never missing a full, aromatic
bath on his birthday. Not while his father was alive.

Unfair. The Calamity had been such an unfair end to Abraham
and all he built. For they had done nothing, nothing unusual, to
draw such overpowering attention from the mechs! And yet titanic
forces came down to crush them.

Why? Why? The question had tortured Killeen for years.
Things happened on that day which Killeen still did not understand.
Sensations ··· bizarre colors in the sky. Swift clouds and
flickerings he had never seen before or since. It had been as if all
nature had joined with the mechs in their assault.

Yet Abraham had fought on. Never flagging. Resonating encouragement.
No one lost confidence in him, even at the last, as
he held the rear guard firm, allowing Lieutenant Fanny a narrow
chance to guide survivors away into scabrous exile.

No one ever lost confidence in father. The words echoed inside
him. Even in defeat, he was all a man should be.

Miserable, Killeen allowed his head to slump down into his
hands. He smelled acrid smoke, and knew that it was not from
today's struggles. Rather, it was from that day long ago. The day
when he should have died at his father's side. His sensorium had
inadvertently called up the scent association.


Why.. · do you persist.. · in thinking that he died?


Killeen's head snapped up, partly in surprise that his Grey
Aspect would rise up, unsummoned, to make a personal observation.
He blinked.


· . . The magnetic entity said...


He shook his head. "I believe what I saw. I saw a bolt take
away what was left of the Citadel. A flash, an' it was gone.
Abraham is dead. An' soon so will we be."

Killeen realized he had muttered aloud. He glanced around
and saw Toby looking at him across the way. For his son's sake he
made an effort to straighten his posture. He tried to wear an
expression more serene than he felt, and had partly succeeded by
the time a skinny boy with instruments and cold hands came to
take away his command chips. He sat still, making no motion as


	TIDES OF LIGHT
	255


the tech snapped open the back of his neck and removed bits of
sensoria that had become as familiar as the nerves of his hands. A
numbness settled in where each had been.

He was in a good position to watch when Jocelyn came up the
hill with a punishment detail and a Bishop man, Ahmed. They
bound the man's hands and Jocelyn flogged him. From the techtype
Killeen learned that Ahmed had made some disparaging remark to
a member of the Sebens and His Supremacy had overheard.

Normally such a thing would be passed over. Matters were not
going to go easily for Bishops, that was clear.

Killeen watched silently as Jocelyn whipped Ahmed. He recalled
how agonizing he had found such matters on Argo. It was
no easier to watch now, but at least he did not have to feel
responsible.

He had been vaguely planning to strike some deal with Joce-lyn,
since he knew she would have trouble leading a Family which
had already suffered so much. Changing Cap'ns was unwise amid
disaster, and their situation transcended any difficulty he could
remember, even the worst days on Snowglade.

He now saw in her glinting eyes and set mouth a woman who
had waited for just such a moment, and would not be talked into
sharing the smallest speck of authority. He wondered for an
instant whether he 'would have done the same if their situations
were reversed. It didn't matter.

In that moment he felt the weight of the Cap'ncy lift from
him, cutting through the shock and sorrow of loss. He could be
just another Bishop again. He could pay more attention to Toby
and Shibo and perhaps escape the catastrophe he felt closer and
closer now, a dark presence lying in wait in this blighted place.

The cold-handed boy was finished. With genuine relief Killeen
got up and walked away.

Shibo and Toby cooked the green stuff over a crackling fire. It
tasted far better than it had any right to, a sign of how tired and
hungry they all were. Killeen let his feet soak in a warm, briny
bath, hoping to drain his blisters. The pleasure of it alone was
worth the trouble. This water-rich world had its compensations.
His years aboard Argo had softened more than merely his feet. He
thought wistfully of the comforts of the ship, the rich and exotic
foods, the simple but crucial matters of warmth and light. He
studied the haggard faces around the fire. How quickly they all
had been cast down from the skies, forced back to the desperate


	256
	Gregory Benford


existence they had known on Snowglade. Shibo had kept them
together, but their dreams were shattered forever.

There was no way to avoid discussing the battle and at first
they kept their tones almost dispassionate. Their voices were low,
somber, carrying the accumulated gravity of memories too fresh to
be digested.

First they analyzed the Cyber defense, a relatively neutral
subject. Besen said, "If they know where main attack's comin'
from, they can block shots."

Toby said, "Then let's fire from different directions at the same
time."

"Hard," Shibo said. "Their screens move fast."

"Still, we can try it," Besen said.

Killeen was glad to see that Toby and Besen had figured their
way through the lessons to be learned without prompting. They
were growing up fast. Besen particularly would make a good
lieutenant in a while. She was decisive. And Toby was improving
under her influence. Killeen remembered how a boy was first
entranced with sex, and then somehow started to learn from it.
He felt a quiet satisfaction that Toby was coming out of the
awkward teenage muddle. Both he and Besen had shrugged off
the horror of the battle well.

But then Toby said quietly, "Who started the runnin'?" and
Shibo looked at Killeen,

"Like most times, panic started in the rear," he said evenly.
"Howcome?" Besen asked.

"People back there got a better view, can see what's happenin'."
She said pensively, "You'd think it'd come in the front."
Shibo said, "The rear units think nobody's watching them."
"Nobody at the front broke," Killeen said.

Toby blinked. "You mean Loren wasn't turnin' tail?"

"Naysay," Killeen said softly. "He was cuttin' left, tryin' for a
better angle on a Cyber."

Relief washed over Toby's face. "Good. Rumor was he'd dropped
his beam-shooter, cut, and run."

"Naysay. Cyber killed him outright while he was in what looked
like good cover."

Besen and Toby both sighed, their faces losing some of their
pinched sorrow. Killeen understood then that the seemingly small
issue of Loren's behavior in the moments before he died had
loomed as large for them as his death itself. The curious and yet
utterly human morality of the battlefield shielded them from the


TIDES OF LIGHT


257


full brunt of their grief; they clung to the hope that good conduct
meant a good death. He envied them that common defense of the
young. It would not last long.

Killeen sat immersed in his own gray thoughts until Toby
abruptly said, "Fudd gud."

Killeen glanced at him, thinking that the boy had his mouth

full.

"Mauf fills rung."

Killeen gave him a quizzical glance, suspecting a joke. Shibo
and Besen seemed more concerned.

"Fir hiss gud." Spasms flitted across Toby's face like storm
clouds scudding.

Toby got up unsteadily, eyes veering around. "Ah donut fill so
gud."

On ramrod-straight legs the boy took awkward steps away from
the fire. Killeen called, "You better lie down. This chow--"

Toby fished forth his belt knife. It was a prized possession, the
blade of worn but flexible blue steel, fully as long as the boy's foot.
Toby's mouth worked as he peered down at the blade as though
he was studying his reflection. Then he took two stiff steps to a
thick tree with rough bark that slanted out from the ravine wall.
Without a pause Toby drew back the knife with his right hand and
placed his left hand on the tree, palm down.

Killeen saw what was going to happen a long, slowmotion
instant before it did. He leaped forward, a shout beginning in his
throat.

Toby slammed the blade down into his hand, pinning it to the
hilt in the tree.

By the time Killeen reached him Toby was screaming with all
the force of his lungs. When the air ran out the boy gasped and
then started screaming again. Blood flecked his cheeks and hair. A
thin red trickle began running down the tree, following the crevices
in the crusty bark.

Toby's right hand now yanked back on the handle of the knife
but without effect. He screamed hoarsely and gasped, gulping in
air, and screamed again forlornly, this time, hopelessly.

"Let go!" Killeen shouted. He grabbed Toby's right hand,
which was trying to wrench the knife out. The blade was driven
halfway into the bark,

"Let me take it, son. I'll get it."

Through a glazed, crazy sheen in his eyes Toby seemed to


	258
	Gregory Benford


recognize his father. He opened his mouth to gasp and began
screaming again.

"You're twisting it!" Killeen shouted. Toby's yanking at the
handle had rotated it, cutting the hand more.

The trickle of crimson thickened. It reached the ground and
began to spread into a pool.

Killeen cried to Shibo, "Hold him."

She and Besen quickly slipped arms around Toby, who had
started to rock back and forth on his feet, screaming and gasping.
The wail roughened and Killeen could hear his son rasping his
throat raw.

He carefully pried Toby's fingers from the handle.
"Griefl Griefl" Shibo cried, an ancient mournful curse.

"Toby--how, what--" Besen began, then burst into frightened
tears.

Sobs escaped from Toby's strained throat. His mouth contorted
but he could not speak.

Killeen braced himself. He concentrated and with one movement
pulled the knife cleanly from the tree.

Toby collapsed. The women lowered him to the dusty gravel
nearby, avoiding the puddle of brown-crusted blood.

Killeen threw the knife aside and found his carrypack a short
distance away. He found some organiform cloth tucked in a pocket
and cut it into slices with his own knife. Toby was thrashing under
the women's hands, moaning, gulping, shouting incoherently. Other
Bishops came running.

Killeen made a tourniquet and bound up the hand while the
women continued to hold Toby down. Then Shibo untied it and
did the job again, better.

Toby gasped fast and shallowly, face ashen.

"Son--son," Killeen said. The boy stared up at the night,
where ruddy light seeped from distant molecular clouds between
the stars. "Son, what...?"

Besen had stopped crying while the three of them worked on
the hand and now she started again, sobbing softly. Killeen's
mouth was dry and he could not get the coppery tang of blood out
of his nostrils.

"I . . . Somethin' . . . Had an idea. Do that." Toby got the

words out between chapped, white lips.
"Your idea?" Shibo asked.
"I... dunno."
"What was it like?"


TIDES OF LIGHT


259


"A big... Slick. Shiny, almost."

"What did it look like?" Besen asked, choking back her tears.

"I ... Big, pressin' in on me. Look ...?" Toby frowned,
staring into space.

"Oh, why, why--" Besen began.

Killeen held up a hand to cut her off. He nodded to Toby.
"Yeasay, son. What did it look like?"

"Looked so . . , so shiny. And . . . no face. No face at all."


SIX


The jut and tumble of these ragged mountains snagged Quath as
she fled. Sharp stone teeth nipped at her. She stumbled several
times, barely catching herself. Fresh outcroppings had flowered
into spreading black fans, liberated by the last quake. They rasped
on her undercarriage. Her minds rattled with percussive confusion
and her only reaction was to move, run, escape.

It had been a near thing. She had almost been caught and
pinned, drawn into the Nought mind she had invaded.

Yet that was impossible. Hers was a well-ordered, multiple
mind, capable of calling up enormous volumes of knowledge, of
marshaling mental resources in a microsecond, of overwhelming
with layered mass any simple, linear Nought mind. When she had
carried her own Nought inside herself she had merely verged on
its mind. Preoccupied, she had made only glancing contact. Occupying
her second Nought had been equally simple. And, she now
saw, each time some unsuspected barrier had fallen.

All her wrenchings and lacerating blows had not gained her
freedom from this latest, apparently minor intelligence. Trying
to extricate herself, she had found her self-aura immersed in
a swampy, sucking underlayer. It was cloying and thick, a muddy
sludge of clotted, unconscious impulses, memories, gnarled
subsystems.

Here was where this Nought truly lived. Quath had sensed its
raw, sticky pull in a jolting instant of profound surprise. The
mind's upper layers were mild and obliging, like cool, smooth
corridors beneath the linear engagements of the conscious--while
far below, in chambers walled and ramified with bony purpose,
lurked a complex, ropy labyrinth of strange power.

Or minds. Quath was not even sure the Nought was a single
intelligence.

Its highest echelons had seemed to be more like a passive
stage than a directing entity. There, on a broad, level area above


260


	TIDES OF LIGHT
	261


the syrupy seethe, factions of the undermind warred. An abyss
yawned.

Instincts spoke quietly, effectively, never falling silent. Emotions
flared prickly hot--heckling, yearning, always calling the
higher intelligence away from its deliberations.

Zesty hormones surged---not to carry wedges of information or
holistic images, as in Quath, but to flood the bloodstream with
urgent demands.

Organs far from the brain answered these chemical heralds,
pumping other hormones into the thumping flow, adding alkaline
voices to the babble.

Ideas rose like crystalline towers from this swamp, glimmering
coolly--but soon were spattered with the aromatic chemical murk,
blood on glass.

These elements merged and wrestled, struggling armies rushing
together in flurries, fermenting, spinning away into wild
skirmishes. Lurid splashes festooned the brittle ramparts of analytical
thought. A churning mire lapped hungrily at the stern
bulwarks of reason, eroding worn salients even as fresh ones were
built.

Yet somehow this interior battle did not yield mere confusion
and scattered indecision. Somehow a single coherent view emerged,
holding the vital, fervent factions in check. Its actions sampled of
all the myriad influences, letting none dominate for long.

Quath marveled at the sheer energy behind the incessant
clashings, and at the same time felt a mixture of recognition laced
by repulsion.

This Nought's inner landscape was far more complex than it
should be. No wonder it had not attained the technological sophistication
of the podia!--it labored forward in a howling storm, its
every sharp perception blunted by fraying winds of passion.

But by the same stroke, it had a curious way of skating on the
surface of these choppy, alchemical crosscurrents. Some balance
and uncanny steadiness came from that. It was much like the way
they walked falling forward, then rescuing themselves by catching
the plunge with the other leg. This yielded a rocking cadence
that echoed the precarious nature of the being itself.

Not a single mind . . . and not multiple, interlocking intelligences,
such as Quath.

She should inform the Tukar'ramin, she knew. This discovery
came as a complete surprise, with implications Quath could not
fathom. But for now she was unable to think clearly. Her smaller


	262
	Gregory Benford

minds urged different courses, yelping and squirming. She silenced
them and imposed a stony resolve: keep far enough away
from the Noughts to escape detection. She had to learn more of
what they were.

Cobwebs of the Nought mind still clung to Quath. They brushed
across her field of vision, shimmering traceries of doubt. The very
air elamored with skeptic winds.

In rattled confusion Quath stumbled on.


SEVEN


Killeen was sleeping deeply when the first hard jolt rolled through
the mountain. He came awake at once and rolled out of the tent,
coming to his feet as Shibo followed him out. A second shock
knocked him down.

Jarred, his optieals took a moment to adjust. His eyes auto-marieally
eyeled through to their most sensitive mode, because he
had left them set for night vision. But this made the landscape
glare as if under a noonday sun.

Brilliance cascaded down, bleaching out colors and shadows.
The entire bowl of the sky glowed with rich gold.

The Syphon. The cosmic string was again revolving, sucking
the rich ore from the planet's center. Imploding rock far below
sent immense waves. He felt through his feet the slow, rippling
surge of colossal movements thousands of kilometers below.

"Out!" he called on comm. "Leave the ravines. Get into the
open!"

He and Shibo had slept in their full boot rigs. They swept up
their packs and were headed out of the arroyo when he saw that
Toby and Besen were sitting, pulling on their boots.

"Belay that!" he called. The ground wavered beneath him,
making it hard to stand. "gun barefoot."

Toby looked up at his father vaguely, still half-asleep. They
had given him what pitifully few medical measures the Family still
had against the pain and infection of his wound.

Killeen scooped up Toby's pack and Shibo got Besen's. "Come
on!" she yelled.

A rock as big as a man came thundering down the ravine. It
rolled straight through two tents above them. It thumped hollowly
and rushed by. Edges smashed off, showering them with shards as
it lumbered past. It took their tents with it.

They ran up the slope until they reached the scree. Killeen
helped Toby stumble along the parts where recently settled dust


263


	264
	Gregory Benford


made slippery going. The boy was still groggy and cradled his left
hand. Killeen kept an eye out for the stones clattering down and
steered Toby away from them.

The sky's steady glow made it easy to dodge the debris and
boulders that rumbled past them. Not everyone was as quick or as
lucky; surprised eries of pain came from the ravine below.

They stopped when they got onto a flat, open slab of rock. The
tall granite buttress and angular crest above seemed already scoured
of loose stone. "lally here!" Killeen called on comm.

--Shut up!-- Jocelyn shouted furiously. --Bishops! Home on
my point]--

"Joeelyn, it's clear over this way," Killeen said.

--Bear on me! Don't rally to Killeen!--

The ground shook and rolled and trembled endlessly. Bishops
crawled and ran up the flanks of the saddleback, fleeing the
ravines which funneled rockslides. Killeen said no more on comm.

Jocelyn was clinging to a chimney slope nearby. It looked safe
as long as the shoulder range above didn't slide. Few Bishops
joined her. Most made their way to the ground below Killeen.
The quakes eased slowly. Joeelyn's area held. Mter a while she
inched down the slope and led her small party across the saddleback.
She came onto the open slab where by now over a hundred
Bishops had spread out so they could easily dodge the tumbling
rocks.

"You're undermining my Cap'ncy," Jocelyn said, panting, as
she approached.

Killeen shook his head, not trusting himself to say anything.
From downslope came crashes and shouts. A deep, slow rumbling
swept up the mountain, as though the whole planet were breathing
in painful gasps.

--Assemble! Assemble!-- came the harsh call of His Supremacy.
"Let's go!" Jocelyn cried to the Bishops.
"Safer stay here," Killeen said.

"You'll do as His Supremacy orders!" Joeelyn snapped.

Toby and Besen had gotten their boots and packs in shape.
The four of them set off across a granite plain scarred by rockslides.
The tremors muted somewhat, as though the gnawing at the
center of this world had ceased. Killeen studied the shimmering
curtain of gold overhead but could see no sign of the extruded
core metal. Something dark moved high up, a mere scratch against
the glow, but nothing more.

When they arrived at the next broad rock shoulder His Su-


	TIDES OF LIGHT
	265


premaey was already speaking to the Families that were raggedly
assembling before him. "This is yet another attempt by the demons
and devils released upon us, a failed attempt to make us
disperse, to miss our conjunction with our sole remaining thread
of hope. The Skysower shall arrive soon, my Aspects calculate.
Prepare!"

The other Families began to gather gnarled branches and
bushes for a large fire. They stumbled and fell as the ground
shook, but they kept on. Killeen and the others stared in disbelief.

Then His Supremacy cried, "Behold! The moment is upon us!"
Killeen looked up. A thin band hung above the mountain,
visible only as a black segment against the glow. It moved. The
nearly straight line slowly shortened and grew wider.

Killeen had the sense that he was looking along the length of
something far larger than it appeared. The band curved slightly
with an almost languid grace. The gossamer glow behind it added
to the perception that the band was moving rapidly, sweeping
across the sky like a black finger that turned adroitly, serenely.
Killeen thought that it looked absurdly like a stick thrown so high
that, twirl as it might, it would never come down.

Then the sound of it came. At first Killeen thought he was
hearing a deep bass note that came up through the soles of his
boots, but then he realized that the slow, gravid sound came
pressing down from the sky. It boomed, a single note that frayed
into a chorus of shifting overtones, plunging deeper and deeper
into frequencies that he felt rather than heard, wavelengths resonant
with the entire length of him, so that he listened with his
whole body. It was like the beating of great waves from space
itself, driven by tides of light to hammer against the small pebbles

of planets and stars, washing over them in rivulets.

Something came climbing down the sky.

The slow, rolling notes brought long-reverberating fears. The
rock below them had betrayed its ageold promise of solidity and
now the strange dark ribbon above opened its own chasm of doubt.
Killeen vondered if the thing could be some Cyber device, like
the cosmic string. If so, there was no escape. Clearly it was
headed down toward them here on the bald, exposed crown of the
mountain. He sensed the immensity of the thing without being
able to see any detail in it.

Then he began to hear strumming notes that hung in the air.
They rose like the sound of wind streaming through tall trees, as


	266
	Gregory Benford


though a gale swept the huge thing above, as though it were made
of wood and leaf.

His Supremacy was shouting something, religious phrases that
ran together and made little sense to Killeen.

"Behold, a sower went forth to sow. And to those c sen it
was given to know the mysteries of the kingdom of heaven, brought
by the sower. And to all things mechanical it was not given!"

He saw suddenly that the ribbon above, expanding gradually,
was slowly curving down to point its long, tapered end directly at
the ground. At them.

Now that it drew closer, Killeen could make out details lit by
the skyglow. Great sinews like cables stretched down, interrupted
by knobby bulges, like the vertebrae of an immense spine. It
groaned. The thing rushed down the sky at them, emitting vast
twangings. Taut strands split the air with great hard cracks. A
symphony of snappings and protracted pops sounded, building to
a torrent of noise--

--and something smacked into the rock near them. It smashed
open, showering Killeen with aromatic juice that caught in his
beard. He jerked back, but the smell was pleasant, sweet, cloying.

Another slammed into the mountain, then another. They pelted
the whole mountainside. Families shouted with glee, not terror,
as more of the big, oblong shapes rained down on them.

Killeen dimly realized that he had not felt fear as the band
rushed toward them. Somehow he had quickly sensed that this
was not a Cyber machine, not a threat.

Pops and cracks still rained down, but ebbing now, as he saw
the long thin line, slightly curved, drawing away again. It had
seemed to come nearly straight down, spearing through the sky as
though to point a finger of accusation--or beckoning?--at the
huddled humanity upon the mountaintop.

Wonderingly, he walked over to the nearest fallen object. The
egg shape had split, spattering moisture everywhere. Small gray
spheres were mixed in with the juice. Killeen scooped some up
and smelled a light sweetness. Without thinking, his normal caution
swept away, he bit into one. A pleasant, oily taste flooded his
mouth.

"No! No!" A Trey rushed up to him. "Save for the cooking."
Killeen watched as the man gathered up the split pod and
staggered off with it, scarcely able to carry the weight. Everywhere
on the mountainside people ran to collect them. Others


	TIDES OF LIGHT
	267


stoked the growing fires. Some already spitted the pods on sticks
and began roasting them over dancing flames.

Killeen let himself be caught up in the jubilation. The Tribe,
worn down by its long retreat and short of food, needed a celebration.
Without questioning why, he knew that this manna brought
literally from heaven was good, healthy. The thick, heady aroma
of the roast promised delights to the nose and mouth. Even the
continuing shocks that surged through the mountain did not bother
him.

He watched the dark blade that had cut the sky recede farther,
making the sky shudder, curving slightly as it rose. It had spent
only a long moment at its farthest stretch, hovering over the
mountain summit as though to deliver a benediction--which it
had.


EIGHT


Through the cold mountain night Quath felt a massive presence
descending.

She had taken shelter in a fissure beyond where the Noughts
lurked. From this vantage she could pick up their effusions and
leakage radiation. They plainly thought their small bubbles of
electric perception, damped to the minimum, could elude the
podia. Quath penetrated the tiny, wan spheres with ease, inspecting
the fitful firefly radiances that simmered there.

But she could extract little of use to her this way. Certainly she
learned nothing that went beyond her scorching revelations while
actually encased in the Nought. Rivulets of Nought thought slipped
through the chilly air and snagged in Quath's electro-aura, flapping
like tiny flags in the perception-breeze. And the telltale she
had planted on her Nought was silent.

Still she was reluctant to approach the mountaintop. Another
incident might alert them fully, scattering them and making Quath's
quest harder.

Then she had felt the first high, tenuous note sounding down
from far to the west. The high treble skated on the air, pursued by
booming bass notes. They rolled like steady thunder. The source
came down and forward at a speed that Quath thought at first
must be an illusion. Stuttered Doppler images came too fast for
her. Old fears welled up.

The podia had come from ground-grubbing origins. Heights
brought acute, squeezing panic to them. That was why they did
not hunt for enemies from the air, no matter how efficient such
searching could be. It had taken millennia for the podia to be able
to tolerate the keening sense of falling that came in orbit. Only
genetic alterations had made space travel possible for them . . .
though it did not erase the persistent terror that flight over the
nearby landscape brought, with its gripping images of precipitous
possible falls. Quath and the others managed to loft for short


268


	TIDES OF LIGHT
	269


distances only by turning control over to a submind, reducing the
task to distant mechanical motions.

But this thing!--it plunged as though oblivious to the ram
pressure of air. A ship?

No--the dark line spanned a quadrant of the sky. A falling
chunk of the podia's construction? Impossible--its browns and
greens were unlike the enormous gray labyrinths they built.

Down it came. Quath broke her aura-silence and called to the
Tukar'ramin.

The swelling intelligence came at once, flickering in the crisp

air.

*I understand your panic. Had I not been concerned with
more grave and pressing matters, I would have warned you.*

<Will it fall on me?> Quath asked, trying to seem composed.
*No. It will not touch the ground at all.*
<Mechwork? Is it mechwork? I shall shoot it-->
*Attempt no such foolishness. Here.*

In Quath's aura burst a flowering electrical kernel of knowledge,
fat and sputtering. Data impacted, data rampant.

She swallowed it, converting the spinning ball of inductive
currents into readable hormones. Scents and aromas bloomed,

packed with stunning detail.

<This is so riehl>

*It comes unfiltered from the Illuminates.*

The honor of receiving such a holy kernel stunned Quath. She
tentatively tasted. An astonishing central fact swept over her like
an icy stream: The thing above was alive.

Its history had been buried in a musty vault of supposedly
minor knowledge, Quath was shocked to find. Certainly none of
the podia had spoken much of this thing. Yet, as she unpeeled the
layers of hormonal implications, the crux became ever more
impressive.

<Why were we not told this?> Quath cried, as the history of
the thing poured through her, her subminds dissecting the myriad
nuances.

*We did not consider it vital,* the Tukar'ramin replied. *It is a
curious object, granted. It may he of use to us in the future.*

<Of use--!> Quath felt dismayed shock at the Tukar'ramin's
bland unconcern. Then her eharaeterologieal submind took hold
and reminded her that she was, after all, only a recently augmented
member of the Hive. Her great advancement, the revelations
about her Philosoph components--these still did not mean she


	270
	Gregory Benford


could blithely question the Tukar'ramin's judgment. She sored
the strangely cool presence--the very voice of the Illuminates.

Above, the thing came down through thunderclaps and vortex
night.


It had started as a seedbeast, far out at the rim of this solar
system.

It was then a thin bar of slow life struggling in bitter cold.
Threads trailed from it, holding a gossamer mirror far larger than
the bar. Wan sunlight reflected from the mica mirror, focusing on
the living nucleus, warming it enough to keep a tepid, persistent
flow of fluids.

In hovering dark far beyond the target star the bar waited and
watched. Passing molecular clouds brushed it with dust, and this
grimy meal was enough--barely--to help repair the occasional
damage from cosmic rays.

Filigrees of muscle fiber kept its mirror aligned and formed
the rigging for later growth. Even so far from the star, sunlight's
pressure inflated the large but flimsy structure. A slight spin
supplied aligning tension, through crisscrossing spars.

The wan but focused starlight fell upon photoreceptors, which
converted the energy into chemical forms. The seedbeast did not
need to move quickly, so this feeble flow of power was enough to
send it on its hunt.

No mind sailed in this bitterly cold, black chunk. None was
needed... yet.

The filmy mirror played another role. As the bed of photore-ceptors
grew through the decades, the image formed by the
mirror broadened. Occasionally contractile fibers twitched. Weightless,
the mirror canted to the side and curved into an artfully
skewed paraboloid. Slow oscillations marched across the field of
sewn mica. Leisurely, undulating images of the star rippled away
to the edges, sending long waves through the rigging. The shimmering
surfaces cupped dim radiance, compressed it. Momentarily
this gave the receptors a sweeping image of the space near the
approaching sun.

For a very long time there was little of note in the expanded
imageonly the background mottling and lazy luminescent splashes
in the molecular clouds. Against this wash of light the prey of the
seedbeast would be pale indeed.

But at least the beast found a suspect pinprick of light. Was it a
ball of ice? Ancient instincts came sluggishly into play.


	TIDES OF LIGHT
	271


Specialized photoreceptors grew, able to analyze narrow slivers
of the spectrum that came froln the far, dim dot. One sensed
the ionized fragments of hydrogen and oxygen. Another patrolled
the thicket of spectral spikes, searching for carbon dioxide, ammonia,
traces of even more complex though fragile forms.

Success would not come on the first try, nor even on the
tenth. Not only did the seedbeast demand of the distant prey a
filmy, evaporating hint of ices; the precometary head had to move
in an orbit which the seedbeast could reach.

At last one target daub of light fulfilled all the ancient genetically
programmed demands, and the seedbeast set forth. A long
stern chase began. Celestial mechanics, ballistics, decision-making--all
these complex interactions occurred at the gravid pace allowed
by sunlight's constant pressure. Great sails grew and unfurled
from the beast. Snagging the photon wind, the thing tacked and
warped.

Centuries passed. The tiny image of the prey waxed and
waned as the elliptical pursuit followed the smooth demands of
gravity. The prey swelled ahead, became a tumbling, irregular
chunk of dust and ice.

Now came a critical juncture: contact. Data accumulated in
cells and fibers designed for just this one special task. Angular
momentum, torques, vectors--all abstractions reduced finally to
molecular templates, groupings of ions and membranes. Achingly
slow, the beast made calculations that are second nature to any
being which negotiates movement. But it could expend its limitless
time to minimize even the most tiny of risks.

Slender fibers extended. They found purchase on the slowly
revolving ice mountain, each grappler seizing its chosen point at
the same moment. The beast swung into a gravid gavotte, spooling
out stays and guy threads. The slight centripetal acceleration

activated long-dormant chemical and biological processes.
Something akin to hunger stirred in the cold bar.

Its sail, mirrored by countless mica-thin cells, reflected the
distant star's glow onto the prey. This patient lance of sunlight
blew away a fog of sublimed ice. The beast tugged at its shrouds
to avoid being thrust askew by the gas, but kept the precise
focus.

A shaft deepened. At random spots inside, residual radioactivity
had melted the water ice, forming small pockets of liquid. The
seedbeast extended down a hollow tendril.

The first suck of delicious liquid into the reed-thin stalk brought


	272
	Gregory Benford


to the seedbeast a heady joy--if a conglomerate of reproducing
but insensate cells can know so complex a response.

More tendrils bridged the gap. They moored the beast to the
iceball and provided ribbed support for further growth of the sail.
The glinting, silvery foil sent lancing sunlight into the bore-hole,
exploding the chemical wealth into fog.

Food! Riches! Many centuries of waiting were rewarded.
Thin, transparent films captured the billowing gas. Eager cells
absorbed it. Nutrients flowed out to the seedbeast's core body.
Spring came after a winter unimaginably long.

Finally the conical hole was deep enough into the ice to ensure
protection from meteorites and even most cosmic rays. The bar
tugged at new contractile fibers. Its nest was safely bored. Gingerly,
it migrated. Care informed every move. Painfully tentative
tugs at its contractile strands brought the dense, dark axial bar
safely down into the pit. Here it would reside forever.

The descent of the central axis, now swelling enormously,
inaugurated fresh responses. The beast grew crusty nodules that
sprouted into pale, slender roots. Deep molecular configurations
came into play. Though it had nothing resembling true intention,
the beast began preparing for its next great adventure: the fall
sunward.

No intelligence guided it yet. The rough bark and dark browns
of the body sheltered complex genetic blueprints, but no mind.

Boots poked and pried through the ice. Complex membranes
wriggled, the waste heat of their exploring melting a path. Then
they sucked out the thin liquid-building more tissue, forcing open
crevices. A fraction of the slow wealth worked back to the central
body, where more minute blueprints unrolled in their molecular
majesty.

Mining roots sought rare elements to build more complex
structures. Ever-larger sails grew. The iceball that might have
become a mere comet felt patient, cautious probings. The beast
could take unhurried care, lest it find some unexpected danger.

Fans of emerald green crept over the grimy surface ice. In a
century the tumbling ice mountain resembled a barnacled ship,
overgrown with mottled, crusty plants that knew no constraint of
gravity. Sap flowed easily in wide cellulose channels. Contractions
brought warming fluid to stalks that fell into shadow.

This spreading, leathery forest occasionally heaved and rocked
with sluggish energy. It extended great trunks high into the
blackness above. Trees of thick brown butted against one another


	TIDES OF LIGHT
	273


in competition for the sun. Leaves sprouted, wrinkled and lime
green.

Only the ever-swelling sails could stop the woody spears'
outward thrust. When a trunk shadowed the sails, a signal worked
its way down through the tendrils. In the offending tree sap
ebbed, growth stopped.

The trunks were not simply made. Inside the ice, mining roots
sought lodes of carbon. Though the plants above displayed impossibly
ornate convolutions and flowerings, this was a minor curlicue
compared with the sophisticated complexity that went on at the
molecular level of the mining roots.

They harvested carbon atoms and towed them into exact alignment,
forming its crystal: graphite. Slight imperfections in the
match were negotiated by a jostling crowd of donor or acceptor
molecules. Great graphite fibers grew with cautious deliberation,
flawlessly smooth.

Countless other laboring molecules ferried the graphite strands
beneath the tree bark. Years passed as they merged, providing
structural support far beyond what the gravity-free plant needed.
The fibers waited in reserve, for the overgrown ice world was
steadily swinging inward, toward the sun.

By now the forest had swelled to many times the size of the
parent iceball. The star ahead was no longer merely a fierce point
of light. Millennia of tacking in the soft breath of photons had
brought the comet-beast within range of the planets.

The pace quickened aboard. Small, spindly creatures appeared,
concocted from freshly activated genetic blueprints. They scampered
among the foliage, performing myriad tasks of construction
and repair.

Some resembled vacuumproof spiders, clambering across great
leathery leaves with sticky-padded feet. They could find errors in
growth, or damage from piercing meteoroids, beneath the pale
light of the distant sun. Following instructions carried in only a
few thousand cells, these black-carapaced beasts poked thin fingers
into problems.

If a puzzle arose beyond their intricately programmed routines,
they found the nearest of the coppery seams that laced
around the great trunks. These were superconducting threads.
Making contact, the spiders could communicate crudely but without
signal loss to the core-beast.

Electrical energy also flowed through the threads steadily,
charging the spiders' internal capacitors and batteries. Though


	274
	Gregory Benford


biologically hardwired for their tasks, the spiders could receive
and store more complex instructions for temporary problems. The
greater core-beast was simply a larger example of such methods;
complex and resourceful, it was nonetheless not yet an autonomous
intelligence.

The moment came for more powerful maneuvers. This registered
in the core-beast and brought forth a response that a witness
might have found to be evidence of high originality. Silicates
began to collect on the one surface spot left bare by the plants.
Spiders and crusty fungus together fashioned ceramic nozzles and
tanks, linked by clay-lined tubing. Carefully hoarded oxygen and
hydrogen combined in the combustion chamber. An electrolytic
spark began a steady contained explosion. The comet-beast moved
sunward again.

Still, its destination was not the fiery inner realm. Its hoard of
ice would have sublimed there, disemboweling the beast. The sun
could never be a close friend.

Instead, it followed a gradual inward spiral. In time the heat
generated in the crude rocket engine threatened to warm the
comet too much. When melting began, the beast switched to
smaller pulpy bulbs, grown like parasitic sacs far up the towering
trees. These combined hydrogen peroxide and the enzyme cata-lase,
venting their caustic steam safely away from the precious ice
reserve.

It pursued a particularly rich asteroid which the solar mirrors
had picked out. Cellulose bags grew near the photoreeeptors and
filled with water. These thick lenses gave sharp images which the
comet-beast used to dock itself adroitly alongside its newest prey.

Breaking up the tumbling, carbon-rich mountain took more
than a century of unfiagging labor. Larger spiders came forth,
summoned by deeper instructions. They ripped minerals from
the asteroid with jackhammer ferocity. Crawling mites urged on
the slow, steady manufacture of immense graphite threads.

From silvery silicates the myriad spider swarms made a re-fleeting
screen. Swung on contractile fibers, this fended off the
occasional solar storms of high-energy protons that came sleeting
into the comet-forest. The beast continued to spiral inward. Pro-teeting
the more delicate growths and preventing ice losses became
its primary concern.

The beast grew now by combination. Graphite threads en-twined
with living tissue along a single axis. What had begun as a
thin bar now replicated that form on a huge scale.


TIDES/OF LIGHT 275

The skinny, iron-gray thing grew slowly as meticulous spiders
helped the weaving. Gradually the asteroid dwindled. The bar
became immense. It was thickest at its middle, where the core-beast
now lived inside. Even cosmic rays could not reach through
the protective ice and iron to damage the genetic master code.

Then chemical vapors poured again from low-thrust ceramic
chambers. And a new trick was turned: electromagnetic drive.
Induction coils surged with currents, propelling iron slugs out
through a barrel. This mass-driver shed matter that the beast did
not need, banging away like a sluggish machine gun.

The assembly began another voyage, this one much less costly
in energy. Still, it needed many orbits to complete the efficient
loop to the next asteroid.

Centuries passed as the ever-lengthening bar consumed more
of the stony little worlds. Solar furnaces made of the silvery
reflecting films smelted, alloyed, and vacuum-formed exotic, strong
girders for the bar. But the central art was the incessant spooling
out of graphite threads to join those already lying along the great

bar.

Many thousands of years passed before the final stage in the
great beast's growth to maturity began. The last, most complex
gene sites deep within the original biological substrate began to
replicate themselves.

Intelligence is, finally, in the eye of the beholder. The actions
which followed would have seemed to observers to be obvious
evidence of problem-solving and creativity on a scale, and at such
speed, as to completely prove the guidance of a considerable
mind.

Perhaps the cells that directed the vast bar-beast still farther
sunward were, by now, a mind. Here distinctions turn on definitions,
not data.

The beast had decided on its final destination long before: a
planet with abundant liquid water.

The beast was immensely long by now, grown to a third of the
target planet's radius. To the eye of an inhabitant of the planet,
though, it was very nearly invisible--because the vast brown-black
construction was only slightly thicker than the original comet-beast.
Indeed, a dab of ice still clung to the exact center of the
immense cable. Caution dictated that the beast always have a
reserve.

Still, as the planet swelled from a dot to a disk, more mirrors
deployed behind it--a precaution against defense by possible in-


	276
	Gregory Benford


habitants. None rose to meet the beast. Mechs had not yet come
to the world, and the lesser life which dwelled there probably did
not give even passing attention to the slim, dark line in the night
sky.

Still, a few small asteroids did pass momentarily across the face
of the planet. Ever cautious, the beast focused its great mirrors.
The offending motes fused into slag.

The beast always erred on the side of prudence. Still, its
greatest risk now yawned.

With grave deliberation, mass-drivers began to fire all along its
length. They slowly flung away the last reserves of useless slag,
subtracting orbital angular momentum. This planet did not have a
moon, so the beast could not undergo repeated flyby encounters
to lose its momentum. Instead, decades of careful navigation
brought it closer to the world.

The grand moment came at last. The nub end of the bar-beast
swept up the first atoms of the atmosphere. This sent complex
signals through the superconducting threads that wrapped the
bar. Something like elation triggered more rapid molecular
transitions.

It tasted the tenuous air. This was wealth of a new sort: mild
gases, water vapor, ozone. Especially broad leaves captured minute
amounts and pooled them in great veins. Samples reached the
core-beast and were judged good.

The land below lay ripe with life. This was the long-ordained
paradise the beast sought. Now it began on the full task of its
maturity.

The great bar began to spin.


*As you witness,* the Tukar'ramin interrupted Quath's meditation,
*the Illuminates know much of such objects.*

Quath had absorbed the yawning history of the beast in a
glimmering fragment of a moment, faster than an eyeblink. The
massive thing still plunged down the sky, framed against the glow
of the revolving Cosmic Circle.

<It is safe? The Cosmic Circle will not kill it?>

*No, the Circle orbits much farther out. Your signal carries
overcurrents of alarm, Quath. Why?*
<I fear for

*Fear?*
<It... it is huge. Yet living! To fly so..

*Do not concern yourself. This object was here when we came.


	TIDES OF LIGHT
	277

	/

The mechs had made no use othis odd, rotating thing. Perhaps

	they did not realize that it is alivc
	clse they would have killed

	it. *

		<Who made

·
	This self-replicating form spreads naturally among the stars of

Galactic Center. We do not know its origins.*

	<So immense! What purpose has

· None that we can see. What does brute life know of purpose,
Quath?*

	<Life always moves forward, if only to propagate itself.

· This presumably does so. They have been seen near other
planets. We have not taken the time to study them in detail.*

<But we must! They are grand beyond anything I have ever
seen!>

	· Surely you err.* The Tukar'ramin's tone was suddenly cool.

	Quath said diplomatically, <I meant, other than yourself.

	· Do not neglect the Illuminates, * the Tukar'ramin said formally.

	<No, of course not. But still...>

Their conversation had proceeded through several microseconds
as Quath peered upward in awe.

· Not at all,* the Tukar'ramin said condescendingly. *Such
structures are a minor element in the greater equation of this
world. I have news for you--*

	<No! You see only size in this thing. I see . . . majesty.

A torrent of emotion burst upon Quath. The terror and wonder
she had felt so much lately now swelled to become a toppling
wave, drowning her in sudden, wrenching currents. She felt, at
last, what separated her from all the rest of the podia. Awe
simple and yet unendurably vast. It swept through her, cleansing
and divine.

· Come, Quath, pay attention. There is grave, deep division
between the Illuminates. Some Illuminates have seized podia
here. *

<Seized? But so august a presence would merely need to
make its will known, and any of the podia would gladly kneel in
abject gratitude, to serve. > Quath repeated this timeworn homily
while her overmind swirled with smoldering, long-suppressed
impulses.

The Tukar'ramin's aeousto-magnetie profile took on tints and
flavors Quath had never felt before. *There is holy conflict. Even
the Illuminates are divided, and struggle against one another.


	278
	Gregory Benford

Mordant hues conveyed the gravity of this revelation. <And
they... war?>

'I do not understand what is happening. Some of the podia of
our own Hive do not respond to my commands. They are carrying
out purposes I do not know.*

Quath said sharply, <To what end?>

*Some of the Illuminates feel we should not pursue this aim,
should not venture toward Galactic Center as yet. Certainly, they
say, we should not do so using the unreliable knowledge gained
from a lowly Nought craft. *

<And these Illuminates act against us?>

*Yes, I gather so. * Sadness and disbelief resonated through the

Tukar'ramin's rich spectrum.
<Who? Where?>
*Many, and everywhere.*

<Here? I am about to capture the Nought we seek, if I can
merely sort it out from the swarms of them nearby. Give me
time>

*That we do not have. Find it! But beware others of your

Hivesthey act now for agencies I do not fathom.*

<I shall!> Quath said sternly.

But her bravado was a cover for her own churning inner world.
She stared upward at the massive presence and murmured to
herself, <All this talk of Illuminates, beings I have never seen--and
now they fight one another! By what measure are they greater
than this whirling thing I can barely comprehend?--whose majesty
I sense with my every pore and membrane? No, there is
error here. They see mere size, and that is the fulcrmn of their
world. What I seek is meaning. That I hunger for--far more than
I need the pesky Nought. >

The fragile air filled with glorious notes.


NINE


Killeen woke in a puffy languor. He rolled over and found himself
beside Shibo. She snuggled spoon fashion against him and
he let the moment of lazy pleasure take him. It was a while
before the restive minds of his Aspects nibbled at his sweet
indolence, bringing forward the questions which he had put aside
the night before.

The seed-fruit, that was it. Its aromatic wealth had swarmed
up into him, canceling all the vexing voices, smothering his long-trained
instincts of vigilance and nervous caution.

Partway through the celebration Shibo had said to him, "Good
for you. For us all." When he had only mildly agreed, she had
laughed merrily and pushed his face down into a moist husk of
seed-fruit.

The rogue banquet had spun on for hours. The fruit baked and
fumed over the Families' fires. Songs had rolled over the moun-tainside.
Spontaneous, mournful dirges for the newfallen dead had
risen from the firesides. The chants roiled with rage and then
swerved into bursts of bawdy energy. As the bountiful seed-fruit
had its effects, the songs turned to soft, low ballads of the old-times.
These Families had their former great ages, their sites
made sacred by work and sacrifice, their Citadels and lush fields
now lost and smashed. Yet they carried on singing into the teeth
of fresh defeats.

There had been alcohol, too. The precious small flasks that
some carried were much like those the Families of Snowglade had
so lovingly fashioned and ornamented. Killeen had made himself
pass the fruit-flavored brandy each time it came by him, even
though his mouth watered at the heady smell of it. That way lay a
steep slope.

His Supremacy had gathered the Families finally, as the general
celebration-and-wake subsided into addled fatigue and drunk-


279


	280
	Gregory Benford


enness. Killeen had half-listened to the man's shouted words,
hoping they would explain what had happened this night. His
Supremacy spoke of the Skysower, and such it was: The seeds
came down on each descent.

Beligious jargon obscured His Supremaey's rhythmic incantations.
Bolling phrases described the Skysower as the source of
humanity's connection to all natural forces. The Tribe felt itself
somehow part of Skysower's life cycle. The small but commanding
man spoke of returning the bountiful gifts with the ripeness of the
infinitely fertile soil. The signature of life was its webbed unions,
threading All into One. There was much loud, vague talk of the
Skysower as the Tribe's living link to the time of the Chandeliers,
as God's sovereign messenger, as the one living being no meeh
could destroy. Eating its seeds was a religious act, a holy communion
with the high sources of life's dominion.

"The blood and body of vaster realms was here delivered unto
us," His Supremacy had yelled, his eyes rolling and face streaming
with glistening sweat. "Take! Eat! And prepare!--for tomorrow's
march. For victories to come!"

This news of more planned battles had quieted the Families,
damped their aimless celebration. His Supremacy again used the
device of lighting up his own skeleton. In the cloudy night the
effect was more eerie than in a tent. Killeen had wondered why
anyone would keep electrical tech which had so little everyday
use. Maybe it came along with some larger craft.

Still, Killeen had seen no such human abilities on Snowglade.
The Mantis had displayed similar skills when Killeen was embedded
temporarily in its sensorium. Humanity here must have used
such craft in the past, perhaps as a tradition to augment leadership.
He had to admit that the articulating, luminous bones had a
strangely commanding presence. Other Tribes, he reminded himself,
were sometimes as distant as true aliens.

Killeen also had great respect for their way of dealing with the
unending funereal air that enveloped their retreat. His Supremacy's
closing, gravelly chant:


Sower, sorrower,
Giver, griever


spoke of a long and mournful history that incorporated the Skysower
into the fortunes of humanity.


	TIDES OF LIGHT
	281


These Families had their casualties in order, including the men
and women who simply stared into the distance and had to be told
what to do next. They kept the wounded in the care of the old and
the young, all those who could not fight eloistered at the center
of the Family formation. All this, too, resembled the tactics handed
down through time-honored practice on Snowglade, habits that
ran marrow-dark, blood-deep.

He lay in the morning's sharp, chilly air and stared up into the
scudding, dusty clouds raised by the quakes. The cosmic string
had stopped during the celebration. The mountain still creaked
and rumbled, as though trying to shrug off the human mites upon
its brow. Between gusting, grimy clouds he caught glimpses of the
pale blue above and searched for a thin, swift line. Nothing. The
puzzle of the Skysower vexed him still.

He summoned his Grey Aspect and the scratchy voice took a
long while in replying.


I believe . . . must be . . . pinwheels, they were called...
by our historians. Living cables . . . grown in interplanetary
space ... even between the stars ... or in molecular
clouds.


"How they live in space?"

The ancient woman's voice carried a quality of wonder and
regret.


Legend ... all lost ... do not know why were made.
Some partial texts ... appear to imply . .. evolved from
asteroid harvesters... or some say from... comet-steering
craft... must then date from . . . at least... Age of the
Chandeliers . . . or even before.


"What's it doin' here?"


Forages for planet surface ... lays seeds ... this is its
reproducing phase . . . must have access to biowealth . . .
not enough in comets... or so was believed by historians.
This was long before... era of my... foremothers . . .


Abruptly there bloomed in Killeen's left eye a chart of the
Skysower's orbit. He tasted Arthur's skill in this, but the voice
remained Grey's.


282
	Gregory Benford
	TIDES OF LIGHT
	283


,O


ol o


"Comes dean down through the whole atmosphere?" Killeen
could seamely believe these frames from a stopmotion simulation.


I must say I find this information more than a bit doubtful.
Grey must be addled. Consider the engineering difficulties
of such a project! The strength of materials required!
Further, no planet is a perfect sphere. Bulges would attract
any such orbiting cable, causing it to drift in longitude and
latitude. Moreover, there must be severe torsional vibrations
induced by its passage through the atmosphere. And how
can such a dynamical system overcome the drag of the
atmosphere? No--it would crash to the ground in short order.


"How you explain what we saw, then?"


I am formulating a model at this moment. It will require
work, of course.


"Look, just do the ealc'lations, yeasay?"

After a pause Arthur's nettled voice said:


I cannot disprove these vague memories, of course, but I
feel called upon to point out that the speed of such a thing
would be more than a kilometer per second when it entered
the atmosphere. Such--


"Yeasay, that'd make those booms we heard."


You miss my point. How could a plant withstand such
forces? I find it impossible to believe--


Killeen let the faint, often garbled and heavily accented voiee
of Grey come through.


Many historians ... even those ofPnTe Chandeliers ...
thought the same. But we knew that... starfarers spoke of
them . . . pinwheeling over worlds of grass and forest . . .
beneath far suns...


"What for?"


Concept of motivation ... in biology ... complex. Life
seeks to reproduce . . . to fill as much . . . of its environment...
as it can.


"But this thing, it lives in space."


Could fill... whole galaxy... in time...


"Seems like meehs'd be better at that. They can take vacuum
and cold."


True ... and perhaps in reply to that ... somehow ...
someone . . . made biological materials . . . could survive
cosmic rays... drift among stars... spread.


"Who?"


Historians of... Chandeliers . . . spoke of earliest humans
at Galactic Center ... of the Great Times. Thought ...
perhaps... pinwheels made then . . .


"They could do that . . . I mean, humanity?"


We were ... so grand ... not like my own age ... of
pitiful ... crude ... Arcologies ... that were no larger
than this mountain... mere tiny things... compared with
the Chandeliers ....


"Uh . . . I suppose." Killeen tried to imagine a city as big as
the great slabs of rock that spread so far around him. If those were
what Grey considered small, trivial constructions . . . "The Chandeliers,
sure, they were the best we ever did, so"


Oh no, never... there were grander works . . . far grander

· . . before... in the Great Times.. ·


Killeen wondered whether he should believe the disconnected
rememberings of the little Aspect. Maybe Grey was just repeating


	284
	Gregory Benford

old stories. Humanity had subsisted for a long time now on little
more than scavenged food and glorious lies.

He shook his head and started to get up, his joints protesting.
Time to look after his duties. Then the singular fact hit him once
morthat he was no longer Cap'n. Simultaneously he felt elation
at the burden lifted and depression at his reduced role in the
Family. In all, he decided, they came out even.

Which meant he could forget Family business for a moment.
He got up without waking Shibo and went to see how Toby's
wounded hand was doing.


TEN


Quath lay in wait for the approaching podia. They came up through
a long, rumpled valley in which dust haze settled like a dull gray
blanket. Stands of the curious spindly trees obscured their approach,
but Quath could see them plainly by the pulsing, pale
electro-auras they could not help but emit as they communicated.

Here on the lower flanks of the mountain the land was turned
and crumpled. All the humans had retreated to higher ground. An
ominous quiet prevailed all down the range of tossed rock. The
shards of broken hills gave countless hiding places for enemies.

Were there already podia out there, sent by the Illuminate
factions? The Tukar'ramin had warned that some were coming.
Then her signal had fallen behind the curtain of static.

<Hail and stand!> she called sharply. The party was still at a

great distance, but she was cautious.

<What? Who's that?>

Quath tasted spiked emissions and recognized their familiar
signature. <Beq'qdahl! The Tukar'ramin sent you?>

<Yes. She implied that you were in a tangle, monopody.>
<I have pursued a particular Nought, and very nearly have it
in my grasp. > Quath brought her high-resolution sensors to bear.
<And you?>

<I have come to aid you.>

<And the others?>

<They march under my direction. >

<Your fiery blue ossicles can command such a company?>
<I have risen far, remember. As have you.>

<Far enough to directly carry out the Tukar'ramin's orders?>
<Indeed. We can bring needed firepower to bear. >

Quath felt sudden tightness as her subminds understood the
implications of Beq'qdahl's seemingly innocuous words. The
Tukar'ramin was out of contact. A wall of hot static had descended
between Quath and the great Hive to the south.


285


286
	Gregory Benford
	TIDES OF LIGHT
	287

Quath said joshingly, <Firepower? Ground-groveler, I do not
need to kill. >
<You hunt, do you not? Such work is always dangerous.>
<I hunt to capture. >
Beq'qdahl's shimmering voice-tastes took on a hedged air. <So
you do. We can rout the Nought packs and drive them toward
you. >
<That is too full of risk, > Quath said stiffly.
Beq'qdahl made a flavor of dry mirth. <For such as we, old
burrower?>
<Nofor the Noughts. They will stand and die before they
retreat much farther. They are already cornered.>
<Noughts flee before us, that is an eternal rule.>
Beq'qdahl was either boasting for the benefit of the podia
around her or being erafry beneath her air of idle arrogance.
Quath said, <These will hammer at us. >
<Let them!>
<Recall an earlier battle we had?> Quath said pointedly.
<We were unprepared then. >
<And the Noughts were less desperate,> Quath countered.
Beq'qdahl sent a spike of wry amusement. <Noughts are by
definition always desperate. And you only need one, correct? The
rest we shall slaughter. >
Quath made her decision. <Come forward, Beq'qdahl. I am
losing your signal. There is some static.>
<Yes, I smell it here also. Some difficulty back toward the
Hive, I believe.>
The squat outlines of the podia moved quickly. They seemed
to flow around the outcroppings and faults that marred the valley
floor. Quath had a good vantage to see them. She found Beq'qdahl
and sighted in on her old friend and rival.
<Hold there!> Quath cried. Try as she might, she could not
keep wavering tones from undercutting her stern carrier wave.
<What?> Did Beq'qdahl's hormone-tinge carry irritation, or
the darker musk of crafty guile?
<You should move westward if you seek Noughts.> Quath
hoped this ruse would deflect them.
<We register Noughts at the crest of the mountain, not down
here. >
<I have those trapped. Another evening of study and I shall
snare my Nought.>
This was only a partial lie. Quath felt her Nought's faint,

strumming flavor atop the mountain even now. In truth, she could
not get the heady, enticing scent of it to leave her now--a disturbing
fact. But she needed time to locate the Nought precisely.
Then she had to devise a way to capture it without provoking a
struggle that might kill the Nought instead.
<We are sure it is up there,> Beq'qdahl said mildly.
One of Beq'qdahl's companions cut in, <Pap-gorger, let us by!
We come to forage, not to jabber.>
Quath's proboscis clacked angrily at this insult, and found the
offending one in her target array. <Careful, quadpod.>
<Let us drive them toward you, venerated and tired one,>
the companion added.
Quath gave them back quick, raucous contempt. <I can outrun
you all, dung-shapers. And you shall not pass.>
Beq'qdahl suddenly sent a sharp, bile-laced taunt: <Out of the
way, cyst-sucker!>
<No. > Quath aimed at Beq'qdahl, began to charge her capac-
itors . . . and found a curious reluctance steal over her.
<You have always stolen the fruits of my labor!>
Quath said simply, <Come no further.>
<Or tripped me from behind!>
<No more warnings. >
The podia spread into an attacking fan formation. <Now!>
Beq'qdahl called wildly.
Quath tried to fire at Beq'qdahl's approaching image . . . and
could not.
She swiveled her antennae. The companion who had shouted
welled up in her sights. She sent a crisp bolt into the target. Its
upper carapace blew to tumbling fragments.
Beq'qdahl did not even cry out in dismay. She ducked into a
hollow, as though she had expected conflict all along. Quath lost
sight of all the podia as they dodged and ran and threw out
conflicting aura-clues.
She resisted the desire to fire at momentarily exposed targets.
They could triangulate her that way. If she kept her silence,
though, she could hold them off. They could not reach her here,
she knew, across so much exposed ground.
Taunts came to her as they realized their predicament: Sphincter-sharer[
Orifice for all[
Their insulting warblings dwindled as she relegated them to a
submind. If they slipped and said anything revealing, this smaller
facet would alert the full Quath-self.


	288
	Gregory Benford


Now she had one great goal. The urgency of it surged through
her like the sudden, biting, inexplicable sandstorms of the ancient
podia homeworld. Something primordial seized her imagination, a
fevered desire that went far beyond her duty to the Tukar'ramin
or even to the distant, mysterious Illuminates. Quath had to seek
the Nought.


ELEVEN


"Family Bishop will carry out the flank attack," His Supremacy
said dramatically.

The morning sun seemed to press against the tattered walls of
the large tent. There would be heat in this day down the slopes of
the mountain, but up here the tent still held the cold of the night.
The Cap'ns and underofficers of the assembled Tribal Families
stood at parade rest before His Supremacy, who paced back and
forth.

Killeen remembered the huge desk which His Supremacy had
lounged behind the first time Killeen saw him. No doubt it had
been abandoned by the baggage train. Even the commandeered
mech transports had trouble getting up the mountainside, and no
team of men could have pushed the desk so far uphill. Still less
likely was the possibility that anyone could be induced to try.

"I shall direct the main body, of course. After the Bishops have
diverted the enemy, I shall strike the final, mortal blow." The
man stopped, stamped his feet, and looked searchingly at his
officers. "Understood?"

Jocelyn, standing beside Killeen, said, "We Bishops are honored
at being given first chance at the enemy."

His Supremacy's face, which had been compressed with concentration,
smoothed. "You are being accorded an opportunity to
make up for your regrettable performance in the most recent action."

"Rest assured we'll do well," Jocelyn answered, bowing her
head slightly.

His Supremacy's eyes showed pleasure at this. Then the eyes
went blank as a rapt look came over him. "This is the opportunity
we have awaited. The foul Cyber demons are concentrated in the
broad valley to the east, as our scouts have shown. With their
attention directed down the valley, they will certainly bunch up as
they move to attack the Bishops. At that moment we can mass
our fire. Once we make a breach, all the Tribe can flow through it.


289


	290
	Gregory Benford


The Bishops can then disengage and join us in the next valley,
beyond the eastern ridge."

The Cap'n of the Sebens said, "How we know we can hit 'em
hard enough? Could be plenty Cybers there, and we'd-"

"The more the better," His Supremacy said vehemently. "They
will be dense on the ground and vulnerable to directed fire. We
can hit them even more easily from the mountain as we come

down."

"Yeasay!" another Cap'n called. "More we hit them, fewer we
have to fight through later."

The entire tent rocked with the shouted assent of the other
officers. His Supremacy nodded, rewarding them with a thin
smile. "We do not know their numbers, but we know our cause is
holy. We shall win through!"

Killeen could not stop himself from saying, "There're twenty-eight."

Complete silence. His Supremacy's eyebrows arched. "Oh? You
have patrolled the valley?"

"Naysay. But I . . . I can tell how many there are."

"You see through Divine revelation?" His Supremacy seemed
to be asking a genuine question, as though this was a plausible
source of knowledge.

Killeen caught a significant look from the sharp-nosed woman

who was Cap'n of the Sebens. She shook her head very slightly.
"No, I've gotten a good count by watchin' the valley."
Killeen saw now the fixed look in His Supremacy's eyes and
guessed its cause. Of coursethe man believed himself God, and
so any other person who claimed a direct line to the infinite would
be a rival. Killeen thought of the men and women spitted and left
in the sun. Perhaps some of them had claimed a special role, to
their misfortune.

"Very good. But I should think that even a person of your little
experience and lack of battlefield skills could see the error in your
statement. You count only the enemy who reveal themselves. We
know that the demons often burrow below ground, as doctrine
says they must, since they are agents of the underworld. Therefore,
you have counted only a fraction of them."

"Ah, yeasay, Your Supremacy," Killeen said.

"I apologize for this officer's outburst," Jocelyn put in.

"We understand," His Supremacy said grandly.

"Be assured, Supremacy, that we Bishops shall carry the fight
hard and sure," Jocelyn added firmly.


	TIDES OF LIGHT
	291


"Very good. There is no need to stay here, caged in by these
demons. Skysower will not soon return to this mountaintop, my
computational Aspects tell me. It spreads its sacred wealth around
the girdle of our globe, a hundred descents in a single day. Our
nourishment complete, we now fulfill our exalted mission."

The man lectured as though speaking to children, his eyes
focused up into the tent top.

"Supremacy, we wish your battle benediction," the Cap'n of
the Niners said in a closing ritual.

Killeen kneeled with the rest and received the windy, singsong
speech. It contained references to battles lost and cities
fallen long ago, all meaningless to him but somehow ringing with
the same sad truth that he had heard in the orations at Citadel
Bishop as a boy. No matter that this Tribe had clutched at this
queer little man in their desperation--their pain was perhaps
even greater than those on Snowglade had suffered. Here humanity
had enjoyed what it thought was a kind of victory over the
mechs, actually destroying cities-only to have the more deadly
Cybers arrive and finish the job. To be lifted and then dashed
again did double damage. Perhaps this finding refuge in religion,
and in one tyrannical Elder, was understandable.

As Killeen left the tent he caught the sidelong glances of
others and understood what a close call he had survived. His
Supremacy brooked no competition.

He had felt the urge to tell them of the odd perceptions that
shot through him incessantly now. It was like being swallowed
whole, gripped in a moist mucous cloud. In lacy filaments he saw
shifting dun-colored terrain. Huge Cybers ran quickly through it,
their shiny skins sprouting projections. Snatches of percussive talk
came in a hollow, staccato language.

Killeen knew the valley they would try to cross, knew it in a
deep, skin-tingling sense. He could close his eyes even now and
feel the taste of Cybers moving through it. But how?

He thought he knew. What the answer implied, though, he
could not guess.

No doubt ff he had spoken of this in the tent the proper
interpretation would have been quite clear to His Supremacy.
Divine revelation, yes. And by now Killeen would have been
groaning out his last on a stake atop this barren mountain.


TWELVE


Quath knew she should remain fixed in the present, moored in
the reality of craggy reaches and massive buttresses. She had to
keep watch on the podia Beq'qdahl led in the plains below. They

kept slipping nearer. Only Quath's ranging shots kept them at bay.
But the tangled world within beckoned ....

She had found the one Nought, she was sure of that now.
Edging closer, lightly touching the tiny pale spheres of their
separate selfhoods, Quath had finally pressed against one who had
the tang and bite she recognized. The earlier Nought that she had
invaded, yes, she saw the resemblance--but not the same. This
property in itself was intriguing, but she had no time to inspect
the myriad rivulets of meaning in these sublattices.

Quath now saw that with each close encounter she was learning
a different pathway into Noughts. Each entrance brought fresh
perspectives. And pitfalls. The portals of her own Nought had
ushered Quath into a miasma.

At first it had been like dusky radiance descending through
murky memories, creaky with age. Yellowed filigrees rotted and
fell away, lace parted, cobwebs lifted from glinting, brass-hard
facts . .. which themselves dissolved like singing dust beneath
the rub of remorseless time.

Inside the Nought, yes . . . But where?

Quath had felt herself walking through a broad courtyard like
that which gave onto the Hive's great hall of worship. The walls
cast an embroidery of shadow on stones---only the floor was not
rock at all, but bones, white skulls, worn red carapaces, skeletal
cages of ribs and abdomens. They snapped as she clumped over
them, making her way back into a wide, gloomy past. Empty
eyesockets seemed to follow her wobbly progress. Whispers and
words bubbled from the street of bones. Some were sharp and
bitter, ripped from throats which still longed and yearned. She
could not understand these twisted, clangorous sounds. Abruptly
she saw that they came from the podia past, stitching blood and
marrow and desire and history into a tight sound-knot.


292


	TIDES OF LIGHT
	293


Her solid footing grew flesh-soft. Quath plunged forward helplessly,
each frightened step taking her up to the knee in the
cloying, mossy past. Suddenly she was falling, falling--and petrifying
fear shot through her like red pain.

No! her subminds cried. She landed in soft feathers.

Here beneath the street of the dead lay a labyrinth of sultry
darks. Its angled corridors fanned like fingers into webbed designs.
Quath tried to follow. She was running hard now.

Though she knew that in some sense she was merely immersed
in the falsity of another's electro-aura, she could not
extricate herself. It was like the time before, with the Nought who
had held her, but far worse. She was not pinned to the sliding
experiences of one Nought now, but caught in some swamp of
deep desire, some collective mystery.

The shambling things came to her, finally. She had heard their
feet slapping on the worn, ebony floors, not pursuing but still
coming. They loomed up in the dank darkness that seemed to
come streaming out of the walls. Pervading and consuming shadows,
exhaled by far antiquity.

Quath lurched away from them. Whacked hard against a brittle
corner. Stumbled on.

Though they had only two legs these Noughts were quicker
than she expected. They drew closer in the alloyed silence and
then she saw their faces and knew it all.


<Tukar'ramin!> she called.

The talus slope she slid down sent boulders crashing before
her, like heralds announcing the coming of a queen. <Tukar'ramin!>

Her experience had jarred her deeply, but now the world was
not muddled as it had been before. A hard-edged clarity pressed

toward her out of the congealing, sharp air.

'I feel you weakly.*

<Here! Here I am! Narrow your spectrum and we can cut
through the electroblizzard. >

'I tried to send reinforcements but they were blocked and
ambushed. Beq'qdahl and others have isolated your area. They
serve an unwise faction of the Illuminates. They seeks*

<I know, I know. Forget them--I have made a discovery!>
*Do not dismiss their threat--*

<I know the source of the Philosoph genes. >
*What? How could--*
<It is these Noughts!>


	294
	Gregory Benford

*Impossible. Little Noughts could not have--*

<They were not Noughts then. They have been so trampled
by the mechs that they muster few resources now. But long ago

they knew our Elders. The Philosoph elements entered us then. >

*You delved into them?*
<Deeply! And found my origins!>

'I . . . I see. This is even stranger than I had imagined.*
<Imagined? You suspected these Noughts?>

*From the beginning I sensed complex elements beneath the
surface chatter of their minds. I was curious. That fact, and the
arrival of more Noughts in a ship---it all aroused my slumbering
suspicions. *

Quath had thought that there could be no more surprises in
this day, but a lancing thought came to her. <The station! You
sent Beq'qdahl and myself there. You knew me for a Philosoph
and-->

*Yes. If there were any uncovered aspects of these supposed
Noughts, I knew you were the best of the podia to seek it out.*
<You should have told me the true nature of my task!>

*No. Your ability lies in the formulating of questions--and
those cannot be assigned.*

<But, but--some hint! It would have saved me much soulful
worry. >

*Anxiety is your lot.*
<That is what it means to be a Philosoph?>

*This you must discover. The genes express themselves in
many ways. *

Quath felt empty, adrift. <To be so related to such Noughts
· . . many of them I have already killed .... >

*Quath, I master great weighty arrays of information, and have
a bounty of technical skills far transcending yours--but I do not
and cannot have the queer talent you manifest.*

<But... what does it mean, to be related to these mites?>
'I can venture no answer.*
<Who can?>

*You. *
<No, there are others,> Quath said with sudden conviction.
<The Noughts. >


THIRTEEN


It was at this moment, Killeen thought, when he could see the
fight but was not yet in the middle of it, that fear rushed up into
his throat and clamped it shut.

No matter that he had flung himself into a hundred conflicts
before--all the old sensations returned. Fear of injury. Of death.
Here, to be hurt badly was the same as dying, but slower--carried
in the baggage train, suffering lurches and slow bleeds.

More acutely, Killeen felt the piercing fear of failure. To falter
now would render pointless everything they had attempted. If they
lost, their long pursuit of a shelter for humanity, any shelter, was
vanquished and would never return.

He knew how to loosen the tight grip that choked his breathing.
Once engaged, training and instinct would take over. But as
his eyes searched the dry broken plain, flickering through the
spectrum, there was still some trifling chance to back out. The
rational side of him plead for a reason, any reason, to halt, to
reconsider. After all, he had been left here by Cap'n Jocelyn, in
charge of the reserves. Yesterday she had rightly claimed the
overlay chips which gave a Cap'n a complete view of all Family
movements.

And a few moments before she had taken the reserves under
her own direct command. Cermo's advance was stalled below.
Jocelyn evidently wanted to break the impasse by quickly throwing
more into the head of the attack. She had led them off to the
right, down a narrow ravine which afforded good cover from the
prickly, long-range shots of the Cybers.

She had pointedly left Killeen nothing to do. Very well. He
could join in the attack as the Family plunged down the long
slopes of the mountain, into the confusing welter of foothills.

Or he could simply stay here. So said the thin, hoars. cry of
judgment. If he fell back he could provide cover for the Bishops
in the Tribal baggage train. That, too, was a vital role ....

He had not felt this way in years. It was momentarily, darkly
delicious to skirt responsibility, take the easy way. Safer, too.


295


	296
	Gregory Benford


He sighed. He was a different man now. Not wiser, maybe,
but aware of how he would feel if he carried out such a fantasy.

Wistfully he aimed downslope. He could never hang back
while those he loved fought.

He found a fleeting Cyber target and fired. No sign of a hit,
but that did not matter. His training carried him forward, running
and dodging now, and he let it.

Family Bishop was spread over the entire belly of the mountain.
They moved down through the forests of spindly trees that
thronged the slopes. Slanted afternoon sunlight cast confusing
shadows. His Supremacy had insisted on launching the action
even though not many daylight hours remained; his Divine judgment
had, of course, prevailed over his officers' advice.

Killeen had watched the valley beyond from a group of fat
boulders above the tree line. As he entered the woods he glanced
up through the curious umbrellalike arches of the trees and searched
the sky. No sign of any craft. That was a relief. Cybers seemed
never to copy the mech advantage in the air.

"Cermo! Bear left. You can bring enfilading fire down through
that notch in the hill."

--Yeasay,-- Cermo answered on comm. --Taking some IR
bursts here. Nobody hurt.--

"No point getting blinded. Damp down."

--Already have,-- Cermo replied primly.

Killeen reminded himself to let the officers have free rein.
Jocelyn was Cap'n, even though Cermo and Shibo gave her only
grudging acceptance. In the heat of the fight, the officers would
probably still react to his suggestions as though they were commands.

He ran through the thick forest with a long, loping stride.
Rich loam absorbed his footfalls. The dense woods seemed to
listen for the battle with a hushed expectancy. Fresh power
reserves for his leggings gave him a buoyancy that carried him
downslope quickly, not even bothering to seek cover. The only
useful information they had learned from the previous, disastrous
battle was that Cybers still devoted a lot of their energies to
microwave pulses. Mechs saw the world principally in the microwave
and perhaps the Cybers thought humans did, too. Or else,
he reminded himself, they thought so little of their human opponents
that they did not bother to refit their weaponry.

He broke from cover above the foothills as hoarse calls resounded
through the comm. Jocelyn cried, --Form the star!-- to


	TIDES OF LIGHT
	297


the main body. He saw her moving quickly across a barren scarp.
The reserves were mere scampering dots at this range.

Turning to his left, he watched Cermo's party firing steadily
through the notch in a steep hillside. Landslides had opened
jagged opportunities in this terrain and Cermo was skilled at
making use of them.

But Cybers could do the same, he noted, as a distant figure
crumpled. Killeen blinked three times and into his left eye jumped
an electromag amplification. A crackling blue swarm was fading
around the fallen Family member, signature of a microwave halo
strike.

--Dad!-The
shrill quality in Toby's voice forked sudden fear into
Killeen. Could the fallen figure be--but no, Toby's signifier flick-

ered in an arroyo farther east. "Yeasay," Killeen answered.
--Shibo's cut off downslope.--"Where?"

--Can't tell. Cybers've thrown up some static screen.--Killeen
scanned for Shibo and found no answering color-coded
trace. The center of his expanded sensorium was a gray sheet.
"Hold still."

He set off at full tilt, damping his sensorium to the absolute
minimum as he plunged downslope. Amid the brush and stubby
trees insects sang merrily, oblivious to the stinging death that
arced through the air.

Toby was crouched at the rim of a narrow gully. As Killeen
landed on loose gravel, a microwave burst reached down toward
them, then dissipated into a hiss.

"Down there." Toby pointed. "See? Heat waves."

But the rippling images on the next hillside had a fuzzy quality

unlike the effect of refracting air. "False image," Killeen said.
"Hard tellin' where the Cyber is."

"Wish we knew more 'bout their tricks." Killeen looked at
Toby's bandaged hand. Jocelyn had decided the boy could stay
back from the skirmish line, carrying reserve ammunition in his
pack. "How's it feel?"

"Not bad. Glad it wasn't my right hand. Couldn't shoot then."
"Keep back, you won't need shoot today."
Toby bit his lip soberly. "You think so?"

On Snowglade Killeen would have given his son an optimistic,
offhand remark. Here . . . "We're point party for the whole Tribe
on this one. Be hard to pull back, once the Cybers are on us."


	298
	Gregory Benford


"I figured the same."

"One good thing 'bout not bein' Cap'n, I can move around

less."

Toby grinned. "Almost as good as a bum hand."

"Bum Cap'n, yeasay." Killeen put his hand on Toby's shoulder.
"Look, stick close. We'll cover for each other."

Toby nodded silently, his eyes always following the scan-plane

of his own sensorium. "Wish I knew where that Cyber is."
"Let's circle 'round."

They used standard fire-and-maneuver. One loosed a quick,
gaudy infrared pulse while the other sprinted in the cover provided
by the afterimage effect. They covered ground rapidly this
way, leaving the last stands of umbrella-topped trees. Tangled
scrub in the foothills beyond offered a thousand pockets for human
concealment, but few spots big enough to hide a Cyber. Toby
went dashing freely from cranny to cranny, Killeen noted, far
faster than his father could. There was also a certain unthinking
bravado in his son's manner, despite the Snowglade years Toby
had spent on the run.

"Getting somethin' over left," Toby called.

Killeen cut through some brambles and reached his son, puffing
hard. Through a swampy clearing he saw a large form moving
in the trees beyond. "Don't shoot yet."

"You figure one Cyber's puttin' out this whole screen?"
"Could be." But the creature seemed to be staying as well
camouflaged as it could. It did not fire, even when a distant

Bishop momentarily appeared in the open, charging downhill.
"What's it doin'? Listenin'?"

Killeen whispered, "Or looking for somethin'."

"What?"

"Maybe wants His Supremacy for supper."

Toby laughed. Killeen settled down and watched the Cyber
clamber up a far rock shelf. The gray slice in Killeen's sensorium
narrowed and thinned.

He watched telltale Bishop spikes work their way through the
surrounding hills, headed for the valley. It was a plausible-looking
excursion, designed to draw the Cybers in force. But how long
could they go without being cut off and systematically hunted
down? He handed Toby a sugar-rich lump saved from breakfast

and got up. "Let's go left from here. Keep low--no high jumps."
"Yeasay. Besen's with Shibo, y'know."

A crisp buzz snapped by Killeen. Both of them dropped fiat.


	TIDES OF LIGHT
	299


"Damn!" Killeen spat out dirt. "Somethin' close by."

Toby fired a burst toward the last place they had seen the
Cyber. "Looks like we do it the hard way," Toby said.

They crawled away, banging into rocks with their heavy leggings
and shank shields.

Killeen stopped and examined his shoulder padding. With a
small thrill he found a neat brown burn-hole through it. The laser
pulse had not severed any important control systems. To his
surprise he felt no fear, only exhilaration.

"Squeeze down your seusorium," Killeen said tightly.

They cut through a draw half-filled with fresh slumped soil and
pebbles, evidence of the latest quakes. The Cyber was on the far
side. It was a tubular sheath of glistening, moist skin that seemed
to be sweating. Insets of brushed metal and tan ceramic made a
patchwork across the crusty brown hide.

Toby shot it first, burning its hind antenna. Killeen knew they
had only an instant before retaliation. Into his mind flashed a
sudden understanding of the Cyber's underlayers, a picture sharp
and sure and unbidden. He snatched at a projectile from his
precious hoard and clicked it into place on its stubby launch rod.
He aimed at a middle bulge in the shiny carapace and snapped off
the shot without thinking. The small, birdlike cylinder blew away
a small hatch--seemingly insignificant, but Killeen knew the master
controls for its transmitters ran close to the skin there. Abruptly
the gray screen vanished from his sensorium.

"Come on," Killeen said, not waiting to see what the Cyber
would do. As they slipped away it went into what looked like
spasms, effervescing a yellow electrostain. Killeen sensed the
thing was immobilized and did not question how he knew.

Shibo's telltale winked, not far away. They scrambled through
two patches of scrub and rushed up a fractured face of dark strata.
Besen was guarding her party's flank and could have tripped Toby
as he came charging forward. Shibo was approaching from the
other direction, calling orders as she ran. Killeen found himself
panting so hard he could not speak, and just gazed inquiringly at
her.

"Starting take hits," she said calmly, but Killeen could see the
small signs of worry in her thin, drawn lips.

"We knocked out two already!" Besen said cheerily.

"Great, great," Toby said, gazing cautiously around. "We got
one."

"Cybers don't stay down, though," Shibo said.


300
	Gregory Benford
	TIDES OF LIGHT
	301

"Repair themselves?" Killeen asked, though somehow he already
knew the answer.

"Yeasay, and quick," Shibo said.

Toby said, "Mechs did that sometimes. Mantis--"
"Not this fast," Shibo said.
"Makin' ground?" Killeen asked.

"Some."

"This's all too easy," Killeen said.

Shibo studied his face. "You mean howcome we're hitting
them this time."

"And they miss us, too."
"Something's here."
"Yeasay."
"Your Cyber?"

"Feels like. Can't say how."

She shook her head. "Don't understand."

"Me either."

They all peered between two boulders at the valley floor
below. Cermo's party was pouring down through the last rank of
foothills before the dusty plain. Jocelyn was maneuvering the
reserves through a maze of arroyos that gave good shelter. The
star formation was ragged but moving. Her tack would take the
reserves into the vanguard once they emerged from the thick
scrub. Killeen could just barely recognize the distant figures with
his highest telescope setting.

"We got Cybers in among us now," Toby said, and told the
women about the screen-thrower they had hit.

Shibo nodded. An IR burst crackled nearby. "Won't be long
before Jocelyn hits the plain."

"See any Cybers comin'?" Besen asked. Her round face held a
slight grin that occasionally, for no visible reason, broadened into
a sunny smile.

No one answered for a long moment as they surveyed the
valley's dun-colored jumble sprawling to the horizon. Runoff from
the mountain range was cutting a broad new river down the
center, fed by several white-water tributaries.

Shattered mech factories covered the once-flat valley floor.
Broken walls stood like snaggled teeth, casting pointed shadows in
the late afternoon sun. Evidently Cybers had fought a large battle
here before, because mech carapaces littered the ground. Burnt-out
mech carcasses of every class were beginning to rust. Killeen


reflected uneasily that the Cybers probably knew this terrain
quite well.

Killeen found himself uneasy also at the eager way Besen
longed for combat. The years aboard Argo had perhaps given him
a sentimental coating that would take a while to wear off. Family
Bishop was again a grimly practical band of foragers. He would
have to get used to that.

"Spotted two," Shibo said. She sent the image into the arrays
of the others. Fuzzy forms rippled and danced among the fractured
terrain near the broad, muddy river. "They're messing with
our sensofia some way."

Toby said, "I get just darts and splashes."

"Where?" Killeen asked.

"Spread all 'cross the valley. Movin' slow but I can't get a fix
on 'cm." Toby fiddled irritably with the controls on his collar tab.

Killeen saw the same fitful hints. If each momentary flicker
was a Cyber, and not some ruse, the enemy was closing in and
there were a lot of them.

"Let's get down there," Shibo said. She sent a call to her
party, which was spread across the nearby hills.

Faint calls over corem told Killeen how matters were going
below, even without expanding his sensorium. Halfhearted shouts
and the ragged pang-pang-pang of Family microwave volleys
implied uncertainty, confusion. As he moved and searched for
targets Killeen automatically kept the running tally that anyone,
once a commander, never neglected. How many casualties so far?
Were their skirmishing lines moving uniformly? Was a salient
vulnerable to a flanking attack? Was the star formation closed up,
distances between parties short enough for mutual support? Did
tactical alignments fit the terrain? Did the constantly shifting
fields of fire leave any opening to the enemy?

The elusive Cybers were harder to judge. How steady was
their fire? Were they holding off?. Clearly the flitting forms were
advancing down the valley, trying to cut off the salient under
Cermo's command.

For some reason, a firm and unhurried approach was far more
intimidating than attackers at a run. But the Cybers' pace was
furtive, odd, seemingly running at angles to what Killeen expected.
Still, the Bishops were drawing the main force away from
the Tribal attack point for the breakout.

Up from the fractured valley crisp bolts came echoing. Joce-lyn's
vanguard was spilling down onto the plain. A fault line ran


302
	Gregory Benford
	TIDES OF LIGHT
	303

straight through the floor of the valley and already streams had
converged on the cleft. Waterfalls crashed down from steep jutting
ramparts, cutting at the freshly exposed strata. The newly
formed river was a muddy finger pointing at the horizon. Against
this image Killeen saw the ghostly, wavering dabs of momentary
fog-thin light that might be Cybers.

"Time for the Tribe to make their run," he said.

Shibo nodded. "Cybers comin' fast."

Their cmnms suddenly sprang to life: general call. Jocelyn
cried, --Shibo! I've hailed His Supremacy three times. I get no
answer.--

"Sure you're getting through?" Shibo said.
--Must be. I can pick up his carrier.--"You
give 'em the start-down code?"
--Course. Cybers closing in.--

Killeen said worriedly, "She's pretty exposed down there."
"Let's go," Shibo said.

"We're serving as flank guard here," Killeen said, trying to
keep his voice neutral.

Shibo licked her lips. "Won't need flank enfilade if they're
overrun."

"We can provide covering fire when they pull back."
Shibo's mouth compressed. "Let's go."

They all followed her down through the remaining foothills.
Killeen agreed with Shibo's decision when he saw the fire that
raked the Bishop skirmish line. The Cybers used few projectiles,
so the battle appeared mostly as lancing signatures in the IR or
UV or microwave. The bursts struck Bishops and knocked out
their systems, sometimes flooding inside powerfully enough to
kill. Cermo was taking a lot of hits and Jocelyn had bogged down
already. For the first time Killeen was genuinely glad he did not
wear the Cap'n's emblem.

--Can you hear anything from the Tribe.9--- Jocelyn sent again.
"No," Shibo replied.

Killeen swore softly. "Combat without comm's always a mess."

Shibo popped the release on her comm. "Supremacy! Hear
me?"

To Killeen's surprise the man's calm voice immediately replied,
--Yes. I have been following the situation.--

"Then why in hell aren't your Families breaking into the
valley?" she demanded.

--The Cyber demons are far stronger than I believed. I think


it unwise to commit my main body until their full strength is
known.--

"Full--!" Shibo gaped in astonishment. "We're getting cut up
down here!"

--Regrettable, yes. But I must know more.--

"We can't hold 'em long," she said.

--Dusk is falling. I think I shall move only under sufficient
cover of darkness.--

Shibo shot a glance at Killeen. "Pull back," he said.
"Joeelyn!" Shibo called. "You hear that?"
--I, I caught some. I can't believe . . .-

"Better believe it. He'll make his move when he wants, never
mind what we planned." Shibo's face was a glazed mask of anger.

--What . . . what can we do?-- Joeelyn's voice was ragged
with fatigue.

Toby broke in, "Dad? Three Cybers."

Killeen followed Toby's indices in his sensorium. Three flickering
images were hardening into substantial forms. The pale ghosts
descended the hills just behind their position. "Damn," Killeen
said.

Shibo took this in instantly and said, "They've got the high
ground here. Closing fast."

Joeelyn sent, --If we retreat we'll have to fight uphill in the
dark.--

Cybers saw best in the infrared. As the land cooled, human
body heat would stand out against the background. They had
planned to be across the valley by nightfall, holding positions on
the far mountain range. Then the Cybers would have no convenient
moving targets. Instead, they would have had to attack
upslope against a dosely ordered line.

--Let's make a stand in the valley,-- Joeelyn sent sharply.
Shibo frowned and looked at Killeen. "Why?"

--His Supremacy must make his break soon. We will be in a
good position, can link up.--

Killeen said, "Assuming he means that."

--Why shouldn't he?--- Joeelyn demanded hotly.

"Could be 'cause he's saerifiein' us. We're foreign. We've

already given him trouble. Killin' us otTll take the Cybers time."
Shibo nodded slowly. Besen and Toby looked stiff and grim.

--I, I don't know if I agree with that.-- Joeelyn's dear, commanding
tone had slipped into hesitation.


	304
	Gregory Benford

Toby said, "Dad, looks like two more Cybers've worked 'round
behind us."
Killeen checked and saw the trap closing. "Jocelyn better be
right. We got no choice now."
"Not much time," Besen said. Her face was drawn, her eyes
large.
Shibo threw Killeen a despairing glance. He replied. "Start
thinkin'. Must be some way out."
Without a word they all began running toward the main body.
Ahead, Bishops fired and fled and fell.

Chapter FOURTEEN

Quath knew only one imperative in the clangor of combat: the
Nought. Her Nought.
The Nought excursion had come down the mountainside at a
considerable distance from Quath, surprising her with their speed.
Beq'qdahl and her gang had moved to intersect them. Quath had
watched them speeding up the broad, jumbled valley below.
Her own progress across the high, broken strata was slower.
She called out to the Tukar'ramin for help.
*Chaos reigns here, Quath'jutt'kkal'thon. Insurrection infests
our Hive.* The Tukar'ramin's heavy, somber musks shot power-
fully through Quath's electro-aura.
<I need help!>
*Know that I understand. But I am besieged here in what was
once my grand province.*
<Send only a few, then.> Quath sent desperate lacings of need.
'I can spare no more. I sent help twice but both groups were
ambushed. The renegade podia who jump to the command of the
divisive faction of the Illuminates--they clog the passages nearby.
Such heresy! Such treason!*
Quath clambered across gutted mech carcasses, crunching them
without taking notice. She did not doubt that the Tukar'ramin was
in the right, but prudence alone should be her guide now. <What
shall we do?>
*Remain loyal to our injunction! The glorious Illuminates, the
leaders of the true Path---they still say the Noughts of the ancient
ship must be found.*
<I can reach the principal Nought,> Quath replied. <What
then?>
*You must escape with it. Return to their aged vessel.*
<Send a shuttle. I can rendezvous-->

305


	306
	Gregory Benford


*The shuttle landing fields are captured by the renegade podia.
They are everywhere!*

Quath saw that her view of events had been hopelessly narrow.
She had fretted over issues of fate and death, while all
around her, no doubt, podia had conspired and schemed. Insurrection
against the Tukar'ramin! Worse, the revolt was fueled by

division among the Illuminates. The idea still dizzied her.

<You cannot seize a shuttle?>

*I barely hold my fastness in the Hive.* This admission rode on
a gravid undercurrent of black dismay.

<Beq'qdahl has many. I cannot hold them for long!>

*You are better equipped than they. Remember, they outfitted
hastily for their slimy task.*

<Even if I can capture my Nought in the racked play of battle,

surely they shall dog me to exhaustion. >

*I can render no help, Quath.*

This somber hormone-tinged message sobered Quath as she
struggled down the mountainside. Noughts already sprang and
dashed among the lower foothills. Their agility made them difficult
targets. These were swifter and more crafty than the packs
she had slain so long ago, in defense of betrayer Beq'qdahl.

She saw Beq'qdahl now, a pale fog seeping among some smashed
mech buildings. Her defenses were good, then. To delay them
Quath would need guile and craft abounding.

She stretched a cone of electrointerrogation down among the
Noughts. Now that their own small auras pulsed readily, she could
enter them more deeply. She did--and recoiled.

How could she have missed this? The many flavors of Nought
separated into two groups. Not a crude set, like digital/analog or
acoustic/magnetic, but an ancient distinction: sex.

She had known these Noughts still kept the rudimentary mechanism
laid down by simple evolution. She had experienced it
earlier, when she entered the male Nought. Now she saw why she
had been unable to extricate herself readily from its swampy
clutch. To them, sex was an absolute bedrock. It defined them
powerfully. Quath's inability to untie these primordial knots in the
Nought mind had nearly trapped her.

Had they not learned to banish such primitive and blinding
forces in the personality? The podia had long ago seen the male as
irrelevant, easily supplanted by genetic tailoring. Some were kept
in preserves on the homeworld, but only for historical interest.

Among the Noughts, though, the sharp tang of sex clouded


	TIDES OF LIGHT
	307


every perception, every judgment. How could they think in such
a howling storm?

She sifted through the scattershot scents and harmonies of the
Nought pack as it went into battle. So many conflicting emotions!
And not delegated to subminds, either. Instead, myriad impulses
fought and scurried across the open stage of the sole mind. Factions
shouted and clashed inside each Nought. Instinct, reason,
the whole motley company of hormone-steeped emotions--each
breathed in the veils of sex that spiced every fervent moment.

What impossible complexity! No wonder they seemed so antic.
Their inner worlds were scenes of endless combats.

This further clouded her search. Just as she despaired, though,
she sniffed her own Nought. Here it was--safe! Her antennae
picked up tangs of it below, moving fast.

Its aura mingled with another's--the Nought Quath had briefly
occupied before. The two of them were circling one of the podia.
Quath clattered downhill. If she could get within range

The two Noughts were clearly planning on assaulting the
hexpodder. Quath was too far away to be sure she could hit
the podder without striking the Noughts. Instead, she pried up the
musky layers of her own Nought's mind, searching for some inlet.

There. Quickly she injected a lump of knowledge about the
hexpodder. It would be jarring to the Nought, but perhaps it
could assimilate the data.

Yes--she watched as the Noughts struck the podder cleanly
with disabling shots.

Good. She could help them somewhat. But would she be
smarter to simply collect it and scurry away?

No, there was something else. As she settled into the back
recesses of her Nought's electro-aura she felt springy threads of
connection. It was linked to others here. The web vibrated and
undulated with a curious song of thick emotion and feral, emerald
instinct.

As the Noughts scampered downslope Quath struggled to understand
this new facet. Though each Nought imagined itself quite
individual, beneath their consciousness lay thick, sinewy connections.
They operated proudly alone yet yearned for union. That
was why sex had such heft for them. To disconnect the Nought
from the others would do it severe injury. While her orders from
the Tukar'ramin were clearly to excise this one Nought, she saw
now that this would not work. Noughts did not live by head alone.
She had scarcely sensed any of the depth of this Nought when


	308
	Gregory Benford

she had carried it down from orbit. She had ignored its pain of
separation from its kind. Now she saw that Nought links, if severed, damaged all.
The two Noughts met others. One produced a sharp, eager
spike throughout her own Nought's buzzing self. Here was true
resonance. Her Nought felt a symphony of urgings heavily laced
with the complex musk of sex.
No, she could not yank it from these strange moorings. She
would have to devise some better way.
Meanwhile, booming shots and rattling near-misses caromed
through the foothills. Quath ran desperately toward the valley
floor, where a battle was beginning. One of Beq'qdahl's gang
sighted in on her Nought below. Quath sent a crackling blast into
the podder. It tumbled over and began to smoke.
Good. This podder was a stranger to Quath, and she was able
to brush away the stigma that came welling up from her subminds.
But in the valley was Beq'qdahl, and Quath did not know what
she could do there. She felt a hard, sinewy knot of conflict arise in
her. She tried to force it down into her subminds but they would
not accept the bulked fibers. It churned in her like a bleeding
pink cyst. Could she truly kill her own kind in defense of a
Nought?
Quath could not unravel the bristly knot. She ran on.

Chapter FIFTEEN

As Killeen approached Jocelyn's small command party he checked
his pace. It was a bad idea to display haste or anxiety. That would
unsteady others.
Then it occurred to him that he was thinking like a Cap'n. At
the beginning of the battle he had relished his freedom; now it
seemed a hollow pleasure.
"Reporting," he said simply as he reached Jocelyn. She crouched
behind a broken mech-factory wall, listening intently to her comm.
Her face was drawn and smudged with dirt, but her eyes danced
with nervous energy. She had ordered him down from Shibo's
position commanding the hill.
Jocelyn gave him a look of harried relief. "Killeen--good." She
seemed to have to dredge her words out of some inner struggle.
Breathing heavily, she sat down on an overturned mech carapace.
Factory debris littered everywhere. "I... I'm afraid His Suprem-
acy has decided against the breakout."
Killeen said nothing, just nodded.
Surprised, Jocelyn asked, "You think it's because we pulled
out last time?"
"That guy's crazy. Pointless, tryin' figure him out."
Jocelyn pursed her lips, obviously gathering her resources. A
microwave burst hissed past nearby. Killeen saw that Cybers had
moved closer in from the hills, cutting off the cover of undulating
terrain. Family Bishop had formed a skirmish line along the river.
They maneuvered now among the shattered rock that bordered
the deep fault line. Twilight cast long blue fingers from each
protrusion now. As Family members fell back from the gullies and
dry washes their shadows made them even more prominent targets.
He watched a running woman retreat under covering fire from
the Family. A UV bolt struck her in the lower back, bathing her in
crisp darting fireflies. Dying blue sparks glowed in the gloom. She
fell. It was Lanaui, an old friend. Too far away for him to do

309


	310
	Gregory Benford


anything. He strained forward, watching, hoping that the shot had
not damaged her major systems. Twangs and booms came as
Family hammered away at Cyber targets. Lanaui moved. She
rolled over and hobbled to the shelter of a burntout mech transporter.
From her gait Killeen could tell her power systems were
dead. Now she would have to flee using only normal human
strength. A Cyber could run her down easily.

"What"--Jocelyn bit her lip--"can we do?"

He said carefully, "Can't make the hills, not without cover
from the Tribe."

"I agree." From her stiffness he saw that she was having

trouble yielding enough even to ask advice from him.
"Can't keep goin' either."
"No."

Microwaves rattled through Killeen's sensorium. Nearby Family
members ducked, but he just leaned against the smashed
factory wall. He was afraid that if he sat down his legs would refuse
to get up.

"Night comes, we'll stand out by our body IR." Killeen felt
an idea percolating somewhere and the only way he knew to get it
out was to keep talking, let his subconscious send it floating free.

Jocelyn's eyes kept darting as she surveyed the coinbat grids in
her eyes. She was having trouble keeping up with the situation as
parties of Bishops fell back toward the rough, gullied terrain
opened by the recent quakes. "Right. Think maybe we should
send the fastest out? Leave the rest, have 'em provide cover?"

This violated all Family combat doctrine and she knew it. Her
eyes fixed on him for an imploring moment.

"They'd just hound us down," Killeen said curtly. No reason to
let her know how much this proposal disgusted him.

"I ... I guess we're stuck here. If we can hold our lines
through the night--"

"Never happen. We don't even know if Cybers sleep. Once

they got us pinned, they can call in whatever they want."
"Then... then..."

Since there was no point in making matters worse, he hid his
irritation by flicking his sensorium to infrared. It might give him
an idea of how Cybers saw their situation. He remembered the
time in their Hive, how they automatically interpreted objects as
though illumination came from the floor. Yet obviously they had
adapted well to the surface.

As night thickened, the ground shone more fully, brighter


	TIDES OF LIGHT
	311


than the mottled molecular clouds above. This resembled the
Hive lighting and probably gave them some further advantage.
The cool, splashing streams were darker than the land now. The
forested hills were holding their heat well and glowed like soft
green carpets. He turned toward the fault line and saw a slight
brightening where apparently lava coursed beneath. As if to confirm
his guess, the ground trembled slightly, like a beast shaking
off a fly. Beyond the fault cleft he could see the black ribbon that
was the new river. It frothed as if excited to be cutting a fresh bed
through the valley, running dark and swift.

"Wait," he said. "Wait just a minute."


He watched the night cautiously. A Cyber had been moving to
their left and now it was gone. Was it beyond view, or had
it simply tuned to his sensorium so well that he now missed it
entirely?

He fired a short microwave pulse toward where he thought it
might be and then crawled around the shelf of broken rock that
sheltered him. Shibo was already moving back to the next line.
Killeen ran heavily along the shelf and then angled in toward a
gully. Something sang past him as he sprawled down the slope.
Dirt jammed in his shin shocks and he had to stop to work it out.

By the time he looked up, Shibo had ordered another fallback.
--New drill! Toby!-- Shibo called.

Killeen saw his son's signifier move back toward the river. The
boy was running fast.

--Carmen!-- Shibo sent.

The woman broke from cover and dashed. She had to leap
over the fallen body of a Bishop man who had been hit only
minutes before. The man's suit gave no life signs so nobody had
tried to retrieve his body. They were leaving everything now,
even supplies and ammo. This was the rear guard and it had to
stay light and quick.

Killeen called to Jocelyn, "We're comin' in soon."
--Give us a lfl bit time,-- she answered.
"Damn little left," he said.

Nearly all of Family Bishop was evacuated. But among the

factory walls and gullled land many bodies lay, too many.
--Killeen!-- Shibo ordered.

He heaved himself up on weary legs and plunged across the dry
wash. It was a hard run to the next skirmish line and his eyes


	312
	Gregory Benford


began to cloud with the exertion. Blue dots danced at the edges.
The cool air cut in his throat.

He tumbled over an outcropping of sharp stones and rolled
into the dry wash beyond. He fetched up against a pile of methiness.
In the rolling his vision had elieked back to normal human and he
lay for a long moment, gasping in total darkness. He switched
back to IB. Shibo crouched nearby but she did not even look at
him.

--Besen!-- she sent.

Killeen got up on his knees, his shocks wheezing as loudly as
he did. The gritty soil got into everything and he had to clear his
suit collar in order to turn his head and watch Besen angling in
from a factory ruin. She came into the dry wash at a dead run and
was nearly under its edge when something orange struck her
helmet. She seemed to fly forward and hit the ground solidly. She
did not move.

--Toby!-- Shibo sent as though nothing had happened.

Killeen reached Besen and tapped in the codes at the back of
her neck. Her running numbers all read zero.

Toby loped into the gully, moving easily. A microwave bolt
hummed harmlessly over his head.

He saw Besen. "What--what--"

"She's . . ." Killeen could not make himself say it.
Shibo sent, --Harper!-Toby
knelt beside Besen's body and lifted her arm. She was
face down and when he rolled her over they could see a fine web
of cracks in her faceplate. They were electrostatic fractures. Through
them they saw her eyes, still open. She gazed at them as if about
to ask a question, one Killeen knew he could not answer.

Harper came running into the dry wash, panting. She squatted
down and immediately let loose a UV shot back the way she had
come.

Shiho sent, --]ocelyn! All in.--

--Hold there,-- ]ocelyn replied. --Nearly got your rig ready.--

Shiho duck-walked over. Toby said numbly, "She can't he. She
can't just . . .

"Hit her clean," Killeen said, and instantly regretted his
bluntness.

"No. No." Toby fumbled with her helmet.

"Leave her," Shibo said.

Toby unlocked the collar ring. He gave it a one-quarter turn
and lifted the helmet free. The trailing connectors into Besen's


	TIDES OF LIGHT
	313


neck popped free of their sockets but there was no answering jerk
from the body. Her eyes were still open.

Toby touched her face. "Besen, listen. Wake up. Come on.
Wake up. Besen--"

"Take it easy, Toby," Killeen said numbly. People hardly ever
came back from a system attack like this.

"She's just out, that's all. Just out. We give her a stim, she'll

be okay." Toby started rubbing Besen's cheeks.

Shibo said, "Cheek her indices."

"Just out, is all." With fumbling fingers Toby reached around
and rotated Besen's head. He and Killeen had to take off her
backpack to get a dear look at her internal monitors. The digital
circle at the top of her spine was uniformly blue. Numbers slid
through each window, eyeling meaninglessly.

Shibo glanced at them and then looked back at the hills where
the Cybers were. "Looks bad," she said.

"No. No." Toby rubbed her face harder, faster. "She's overloaded,
sure. That's all though."

"Could give her a stim," Killeen said, reaching for his pack.
He had to make the gesture even though it was the last bulb he
had.

"Chaney, doing it right away," Shibo said. "Systems need
reflex time."

'TI1 bring her back," Toby said. "She just needs blood in the
head---"

"Here." Killeen helped Toby screw the stim bulb to Besen's
head.

Toby stared into Besen's unblinking eyes. "You got wake up."

A microwave bolt whooshed overhead. Shibo said gently, "We
have to try her now."

Toby licked his lips. His mouth wrenched jaggedly. "If her
systems overstim . . ."

Killeen put his hand on his boy's shoulder but he could think
of nothing to say.

Toby's hands trembled over the bulb. "How . . . how can I?
If..."

"She's yours. You must decide."

Toby's face was white. He looked at Killeen for a long
moment. Then he took the stim bulb and asked, "What--what
setting?"

Killeen said, "Better try full. She's pretty far gone." He thought
Besen was almost certainly dead but the next moment would


	314
	Gregory Benford


make that plain enough. He would have to get Toby away fast,
though, no matter how much the boy wanted to linger over the
body.

"Okay." Toby clicked the setting all the way over.

"Son, I--"

Toby triggered the tab. It made a small percussive thump.
Besen jerked. Her lips opened. She coughed. Toby lifted her
to a sitting position and they all saw the indices stop rolling on her
neck. She blinked furiously.

They looked at her speechlessly. She coughed again and said,
"I. . . what..."

Toby embraced her and began crying.
Two quick IR pulses raked the air.
"Get her walking," Shibo said.

Toby and Killeen helped Besen to her feet. She stared at them
blankly.

--Shibo! Start falling back! Jocelyn sent.

Shibo called, "Harper! Cover! Carmen--go!"

Toby massaged Besen's neck. "Got to go now. Just a step,
that's all. Here, lean on me."

Shibo said gently, "Toby, Besen--we have to go now."
"What?" His head snapped up. "No, she"
"Rest the flanks're folded in," Shibo said.

Killeen took Besen's other shoulder. "Come on, we'll get cut

Off."

"Her pack," Toby said.

"Leave it."

"No, wait--" Toby reached into the pack. He fiddled with an
unseen catch for a moment and then jerked something free. "I
gave her this," he said, holding up a chain with a small yellow

pendant on it. "Don't... don't want damn Cybers get it."
"Yes, take it." Shibo looked at Killeen. "Cover."

Killeen lay against the wall of the steep dry wash and fired a
quick burst into the night. Shibo and Toby fell back with Besen.
Killeen slid back down to Besen's pack and found her weapon. He
expended it noisily, throwing several high-energy pulses at every
flickering target in his sensorium. Return fire chipped and burned
the brow of the wash. He ducked under it and fled, running with
a sudden fevered spike of fear. All the way to the riverside he was
acutely aware of how big and tempting a target his back was.

He slid down the narrow sand embankment of the river and
crashed "nto Jocelyn. An IR pulse whispered close by.


	TIDES OF LIGHT
	315


"How many more?" she gasped.

Three Bishops were manhandling a big mech part down the
slope. Killeen looked around and saw Toby and Shibo getting
Besen into an awkward assembly of mech sheetmetal that floated
in the water.

"None," he said, and started toward the water.
"Three's the most for that. No room for you."
"You sure?"

"Get down that way."
"Look, I want--"
"Shut up and move."
"I--" Killeen shut up.

"You're the last, then. Help us with this."

Jocelyn was crisp and efficient again. She worked well when
following a plan. But there was more to being Cap'n than that.

Three large men rolled something forward on its edge. In the
infrared it looked to Killeen like a big shell. He grabbed it and
helped splash it into the shallows. The water was cuttingly cold at
his ankles. He smelled the tint of Cybers nearby. Microwaves spat
from the embankment above.

Big chunks of rock caught at his feet as he held on to the shell.

It bucked and tossed in the frothing current.

"Get in," Jocelyn said.

Killeen hesitated. Already the team was bringing down another
piece of sheetmetal that some crafter had quickly bent into a
crude cup shape. The metal had already lost most of its day heat

and was so dim he could barely see it.
"How many to go?" he asked.
"Just us," Jocelyn said.
"I'll stay till--"

"Go." Jocelyn looked at him squarely, her features blotched by

the infrared glow of her face. "I'm Cap'n, I stay till the last."
"Yeasay." No point in arguing.

Killeen stepped into the shell as Jocelyn held it steady. He lay
down awkwardly. The shallow bowl rode only a hand's height
above the black water. Jocelyn pushed him off. The river snatched
him to itself as though he were a valued bauble. It swept him along,
jostling the shell and throwing bitterly cold spray into his face. He
tossed over hidden ridges and banged dovn hard.

He stayed as low as he could. His infrared image would be
submerged in the cold water. Cybers on the shore could easily
miss him. Or so went the reasoning.


	316
	Gregory Benford

He waited and clung to the smooth inner shell as the rush and
roar of the water rose around him. No shots sang through the air
nearby, He wondered how far the torrent would take him. It had
not occurred to him until this moment that the Family should
have been told how long to stay in their makeshift boats, Now
they might disembark anywhere and end up spread far down this
unknown river.
He lay worrying for a while before he recognized the faint odor
of the shell he was riding. It was the used carapace of a mech. He
rode down the raging rapids in the hardened skin of his oldest

enemy.

Chapter SIXTEEN

Quath crawled carefully forward. She had nearly exhausted her
armaments now. It was time to use care and guile, else the day
was lost.
The Noughts continued to fall. Against Beq'qdahl's band they
would have been squashed long before. But Quath had maneuvered
in the gashed landscape and caught the attacking podia from
behind. Like an ephemeral gauzy cloud she had danced upon the
slopes. The extra outfitting the Tukar'ramin had provided worked
and purred and salted the very air with deceptions. When podia
fired at her the shots went wide, baking the already tortured soil,
But the game was narrowing. The Noughts were backed to the
river now and there was little Quath could do for them.
She heard Beq'qdahl bray excitedly, <The main pack of Noughts
is moving] See them?>
Quath tuned to the far mountain, where tiny Nought auras
flickered. She had wondered why these distant Noughts did not
give battle.
One of Beq'qdahl's podders asked, <Shall we pursue them?>
Hope leaped in Quath. But Beq'qdahl answered, <No. Finish
the mites here first. Otherwise we shall never be sure.>
Of course. Quath had forgotten that Beq'qdahl did not know
which Nought was crucial. Still less did she suspect that in the
end, they might all be necessary, how interdependent these seemingly
autonomous beings were.
<Get them all!> Beq'qdahl cried.
Quath caught a distant podder with a quick burst of ultraviolet.
It lurched, disoriented, and rolled down a hillside, snapping two
legs. Good.
As she drew closer to her own Nought she caught a tremor of
the scorching outrage it--no, he--felt. Not toward the attacking
podia, but toward the distant main body of Noughts.
These nearby Noughts were webbed together by the gossamer

317


	318
	Gregory Benford

strands Quath could now feel ever more strongly. Their curious
tension between self and other gave forth a binding energy.
There was true sinew in them. She felt the translucent threads
gradually cloaking her own minds. Their touch was cool and oddly
comforting.
And their smoldering rage arced among them. A marrow-dark
anger at their own kind, fueled by betrayal. Quath realized with a
start that the bitter scents were akin to the core-hot ire she felt
toward Beq'qdahl and the other traitors.
Quath's mood rose alkaline in her dry throats. She slipped
down a yawning gap freshly torn in the hills. Her Nought was
ahead, his mood urgent. Those close to him fought on, wrapped in
a haze of burning fatigue. Despair laced bile-yellow through them.
Quath saw Beq'qdahl clambering forward in short rushes, using
the shelter of the shattered rock and broken mech factories.
Gloom descended. Orange flames crept up the cowling of a dead
hexpodder nearby.
Quath switched to her full normal vision. The soil simmered in
crisp pinks. The far mountains cooled faster, fading blue redoubts
sinking into the night. A purple-black streamer marked the great
fault line.
She articulated softly forward. A multipodder appeared briefly
and she quickly numbed its microwave dishes with a stinging shot.
As she turned, she saw a Nought retreating. Before she could
even judge which of the podia might catch the little fleeing form,
a sharp bark split the night.
Too late. Another Nought wounded or lost.
And the web among all the little creatures wrenched and tore
violently. This was what they felt in the face of death--if anything,
even stronger than Quath's stunned recoiling from the fiat facts of
the universe. A deeper sadness, laced with somber mortality. It
was worse, she saw, to be small and fragile and still face the great
night. Yet these things did.
Too late. Too late.

Chapter SEVENTEEN

Killeen had tried to sleep in the makeshift boat, but the shallow
mech carapace spun and slewed and rocked endlessIv. Once he
had dozed off, but only because the current had swep him into a
slow vortex inlet. He did not know how long he had circled there.
At the merest hint of dawn he paddled the bobbing carapace
ashore. He waded onto a rocky beach, cold and sore and dizzy
with fatigue.
Carefully expanding his sensorium, he caught the hazy fog-dots
of Cybers. They were far behind him. Spread out, combing the
riverbank. But coming fast.
He got back into the carapace boat. The current was weaker
here. It took him in a jouncing path over boulders that swelled up
from the muddy waters like enormous speckled white fish.
He went through two rough rapids before he heard the dull
bass roar up ahead. It sounded like no battle he had ever heard
before. When he asked his Arthur Aspect, the small mind said:

I had forgotten that Snowglade had dried out so in your
lifetime. I remember that sound from pleasant days of sport
on the rivers that once blessed the valley of the great
Citadel. It is a waterfall--probably a high one, judging from
the amplitude.

Arthur drew him a quick sketch. Killeen had always visualized
water as a glorious, rare, placid entity. That it could rage and kill
seemed a violation of some implicit promise. He quickly stroked
against the suddenly gathering current. The shore was near but he
swept by like a leaf in a gale.
The water humbed his hands. He leaned far out of the awkward
boat and stroked with furious energy. The shore inched
closer. A roaring was all around him now. Spray hovered just
ahead. He looked in that direction but the river seemed to vanish.

319


	320
	Gregory Benford


It was hopeless. The carapace was speeding faster toward the
brink.

Killeen rolled out of the carapace. The water stung as he sank.
His head went under just as he sucked in a breath. His boots
struck something solid. He stroked against the current to keep
upright. Already he wanted to breathe.

The water was a brown wall. Where was shore? Currents had
turned him around so much he could not tell. He stepped heavily
and found that the riverbottom was steep. He headed upward.
Knowing little about water, he saw that his only hope was that the
mass of his equipment would keep him from being swept away.

He slipped. For an agonizing moment he tumbled. He got his
boot on a rock but it rolled out from under. The water was bitterly
cold. He pulled himself forward with his arms and then got
enough purchase to stand up. The burning in his lungs was worse.
He surged forward, hoping he was going the right way. His boot
slipped but he fanned his arms against the current and kept
upright. Three more steps--and his head broke water. He struggled
up the slope and fell on gravel.

He sat letting the cold seep away and watched the plume of
spray towering nearby. Glassy-smooth water shot by into empty
space. Trees and bushes bobbed in the slick, brown surface--and
then lurched into oblivion.

He walked through the roaring and watched the great white
column crash down with dazed fascination. The water had such a
quixotic spirit, going from placid muddy flow to harsh, beautiful
froth in the space of a heartbeat. He wondered if in some sense it
was truly alive, as much entitled to the sovereignty owed to all life
as were the plants and small creatures and humanity.

Then something pricked at his weak, collapsed sensorium.
He started, suddenly afraid that the Cybers had caught up to him
already.

But noit was a faint voice. A gathering call on Bishop comm.
It fell silent but he had gotten a fix. He followed it for a while
toward a range of slumped, ruined hills. The jagged stones of
shattered strata seemed to snatch at his boots. He stumbled and
nearly fell.

--This way,-- Shibo sent.

He could not use his searching sensorium for fear that Cybers
would detect him--if they hadn't already.

--Dad!-- Toby's quick spike was enough to give him a fresh
directional.


	TIDES OF LIGHT
	321


He ran down a crumpled hill into the seeming shelter of a
thick forest. The same umbrella trees stood stately and serene in
the faint promise of dawn. Beneath them he felt safer, cloaked in
the remnants of life in this battered place.

His power reserves ebbed. He slumped against a tree. The
woods were silent and brooding, and then without transition Shibo
was walking steadily toward him and the weight of the night lifted
away, insubstantial.

"You . . . you . . ." He could not shape any words that expressed
what he felt. Then Toby was there and it was like his
return to camp before, the Family enclosing him in an unspoken
clasp.

He simply let go, sinking to the ground. Time meant nothing.
The world was immediate, without past or future. Every tree and
bristly bush attained a sharp, stark clarity. Faces loomed, split by
immense grins. Crisp light poured through them all, illuminating
everything with an even, eternal glow. A mouthful of water
drenched his throat in pure coolness. The snap and bite of rations
burst in his mouth like explosions of unendurable pleasure. His
muscles sang with release. The brush of Shibo's hand, Toby's arm
about his neck-these framed each moment, lending a halo of
incandescent immediacy.

He had no idea how long he spent like that, but the moment
came when the ordinary world snapped back solidly.

"On your feet," Jocelyn called. She stood among the scattered
party of Bishops, looking tired, her jaw set stiffly. "I located His
Supremacy. They're headed down, followin' that ridgeline up
there."

"What about Cybers?" Toby asked.

"We'll deal with 'em better ff we got the Tribe with us,"
Jocelyn said.

"Besen can't make good time," Toby insisted.

Besen leaned against a tree. Her eyes were hollow and her face
was drawn.

Jocelyn nodded. "We'll take turns helpin' with the wounded."
"Not good for 'em," Toby said. "Wear 'em out."
"We got no choice."

"Howcome we should hook up again with those sonbitches?"
Toby demanded.

"'Cause when the Cybers run us down, ! want help."

There was no good answer to that. Killeen was proud of the


	322
	Gregory Benford


way Toby had stood up for Besen but he knew Jocelyn had to keep
them moving.

Nobody said anything as they got up and wearily made ready
to march. There was no time for the Family to gather and count
the dead or to mourn them. Desperation hung in the dry silence.

Killeen discovered that his feet were sore. His boots had kept
their water seal intact but his leggings were still damp from the
night. It was a simple fact of life in the field that such a discovery
quickly banishes whatever joy or pain the previous day brought.
Every fresh pain demands its own audience. Every joint protested.
As he got up Killeen swore he could hear himself creak.

He helped Toby reset the bandage around the boy's hand.
They said little. Toby spent all his time caring for Besen, who was
dazed and weak. The boy seemed far more energetic and focused
than he had been before.

Killeen moved down the line cajoling a few Bishops who were
simply staring into space. There were always those who could not
forget the losses of one battle and carried them into the next.
Years on the run had taught Killeen that people would put aside
emotional weight when action came first. Their resilience was
surprising, even noble. But if they had time to brood, or if
someone belabored them about it, they could crack completely.
He chided a few onto their feet and got them started. It helped
him forget how many faces he did not see in the marching column
and never would again.

Everyone was low on power now. Some had a little more and
they started out strongly, taking long strides and getting out in
front. Killeen smiled at that. It was stupid to waste your reserves
when you were still fresh. Jocelyn barked at this vanguard and
made them take flank and point positions.

Sunrise sent yellow blades cutting through the upper cloud
decks. Killeen thought of all the activity above the misty overcast--the
huge warrens abuilding, the cosmic ring orbiting as it waited
to be used again, the Skysower that churned on, planting its
seeds. For what? All these immense structures seemed without
human implication, as natural and inevitable as the weather--and
equally beyond human hope of changing.

The Family line straggled out along the slopes as they worked
up into the hills. Cermo had taken a tech hit in the waist; no
bodily wound, and he could still walk. He fussed with his equipment
and got most of his upper shocks working again. Then he
went up and down the line, joshing and giving sympathy and


	TIDES OF LIGHT
	323


pulling together Family elements that seemed most discouraged.
Jocelyn did the same toward the front of the column.

Killeen watched all this with approval, curiously calm. Up
ahead lay the Tribe and the supply train. Behind came the Cybers.
If they were to survive this day the Family would have to be swift
and lucky.

Having turned the matter over in his mind for a while, he put
it aside. There was nothing more to do but enjoy what was
probably his last glimpse of morning. He walked with his arm
across Shibo's shoulders, resting on her exoskeleton. It was charging
from her solar panels and helped her up the steepening slope.
Its catlike purr seemed to waft on the warming air. The slow, lazy
sound floated through his mind. It was a long while before he
realized it was not sound at all.

A dry cool weight rested in the space just behind the nape of
his neck. That was the way it felt when he had just taken on a new
Aspect--a lumpy wedge tugging at the back of his brain. But this
was stronger, as though air had twisted and condensed into a
hanging dark syrup. Traceries of half-sensed ideas flapped through
the ball of blotchy air. Killeen labored up the gravelly slopes,
keeping march speed with the others, saying nothing, his attention
sucked toward the presence that seemed to hover like buttery
heat. He felt his arms and legs moving as though in thick oil. His
lungs contained a patient, gurgling fluid. Air tasted like metallic
blood.

"It's here," he whispered.

Shibo looked at him quizzically. He stumbled, caught himself.

The massive, deliberate movements were unmistakable. It was
the Cyber who had captured him. And it was behind them.

No wonder the Cybers had stuck to them so well, he thought.
They undoubtedly had a tracer of some kind planted on him.
Nothing complex, just a transponder which could reflect a keyed
signal. It could be no thicker than a thumbnail.

At the next rest break Killeen inspected his equipment. It
would have been put somewhere he was unlikely to see it ....

In only a few moments he found the small circle stuck to the
inside of his left upper shocks. But it was cracked and pitted,
probably from the spills he had taken. When he tried some
sounding signals it failed to respond.

He tossed it aside and stared off into the rumpled hills. Morning
mist rose from the great stands of barrel-trunked trees. Their
topmost limbs arced evenly out in the characteristic umbrella


	324
	Gregory Benford

formation. Birds circled and dove among the pale emerald reaches.
And the sluggish presence still sat at his neck.

The circular transponder had probably failed some time ago.
Now the Cyber was following him by sniffing out his sensorium.

The thought sent hollow dread through him. But another
memory tugged. In the fighting yesterday he had also felt something
like this tenuous weight. And it had made clear things that
had helped disable and elude Cybers.

The blunt presence did not seem hostile. Still, Killeen became
more uneasy as he felt the ponderous wedge waiting, expectant.
Images like frescoes of the real world slid through his mind,
filigree-thin. They dimly recalled his past voyages in the mind of
the Mantis. There had been huge caverns of separate experience,
volumes that dwarfed Killeen.

Now he felt himself on the verge of another plunging gray
abyss. The sensation made his heart race but gradually fear left
him. He got up wearily, leaning on Shibo, and started into the
next stand of trees.

Some Family were foraging for food. Small shoots on the
bushes were edible, his Ann Aspect told him. The big trees had
fungus of deep turquoise circling their lower trunks. A Bishop
woman was scraping it off with a laser cutter in one hand, eating
with the other. As they went by she gave them some and it was
sharp but meaty.

Toby and Besen were too far behind. Besen could walk steadily
now though there were still dark circles under her eyes and
she moved with rickety care.

They had gone a few steps when the woman behind cried out.
The tree was smoking. She stepped back, cutting off the laser
pulses, and the tree trunk began jetting a thin, whitehot flame.
Blowtorch intensity threw a sudden, welcome heat. The fierce
gout of smokeless flame grew rapidly.

The woman stared dumbfounded at the glowing lance. Toby
pulled her away. "Run!" he shouted.

Killeen tugged Besen uphill. The Bishops took a moment to
register the danger. Then they started off at a determined trot,
laboring uphill as the flame grew behind them. Cermo was shouting
orders.

"What... what you think... was?" Shibo asked beside him.
The best they could manage uphill was a ragged trot.

"Some kind energy resource, maybe," Killeen answered.
"Mechs must've grown 'cm."


	TIDES OF LIGHT
	325


"Mechs use biotech?"

"Did on Snowglade, some."

"Just fact'ry stuff. Replacement parts for their own innards."
"Far as we know, yeasay. Here they did better."

They stopped at the first shoulder above the broad forest.
Toby and Besen struggled up the slope with a wall of billowing
smoke behind them. The woman had started a ferocious forest

fire.

At least it might slow the Cybers, Killeen thought. He tried to
see a way to use the flame trees against them when they came up
through the forest. The thought gave him a spurt of energy and he
overtook the point party, led by Cermo. He was still mulling over
the possibilities when they saw a squad of people on the far
ridgeline.

"Tribe!" Cermo called ahead. "Bishops approach."

--That fire'11 show us up good,-- a distant voice answered
sardonically.

"You bastards left us back there!" Cermo called.

--Orders. His Supremacy said was only way.--

Cermo said, "Only way of savin' your asses you mean."

--Stuff that. His Supremacy says, you do. Lucky you got
out.-

To Killeen the Tribe's attitude was bizarre. As the Bishops
came up onto the stark ridgeline they found ranks formed in
moving defensive perimeters. The Tribe was making good time
toward a high, wooded knoll. Though the Tribe greeted the Bishops
with some warmth, many showed no sign of guilt over having
left their fellows on the battlefield. Bishops muttered angrily.
Some of the Tribe were reticent and moved away. The bulk,
though, looked at the struggling Bishop remnants with interest
but obviously without for a moment considering that a gross
breach of ordinary human morality had occurred.

"Don't give a damn 'bout us, do they?" Toby said.

"It's their faith," Besen said. "His Supremacy says we're expendable,
so be it."

"None so blind as she who will not see," Shibo said, her voice
soft with fatigue. She had helped Besen up the last rise and her

power reserves werc gone.

Killeen looked at her quizzically and she said, "One my Aspects
fed me that. Old saying from Cap'n Jesus. Figure we need
all the wisdom we can get."

The situation would have been far more tense if the Bishops


	326
	Gregory Benford


had not been so tired. They rested along the ridgeline as more
Families marched past in open-arrow formation, wedge flanks far
out to guard against Cybers.

Oily smoke came rolling up from the spreading fire below.
Killeen could see trees catch and spurt out their pencil-thin gouts.
Curiously, the trees burned only at regularly spaced points up the
trunk. He watched as a tall one caught. The first plume shot out
near the base. Then another started farther up the trunk and
directly above the first. Soon there were seven whitehot flames
evenly spaced along the trunk. The top of the tree began to rock
and then it went over, pushed by the thrust of the escaping
brilliant gas. He marveled at them in his exhaustion.

The forest fire guttered out into sour smoke as the stand of trees
was exhausted. Killeen felt in his mind the persistent weight of
what he now thought of as his Cyber, but he could not tell if it was
getting closer. Smoke layered the valley like smudged glass and
made it impossible to see approaching Cybers. He smelled their
fog-dabs at the edges of his sensorium, though.

They lay in the waxing morning sun and let it take some of the
ache out of them. Besen was throwing off her dizziness and even
made a joke. It was as if they had all agreed to set aside the press
of the world and evoke some vestige of earlier Family times.
Shibo contended with a riddle: "What's the best kind pain?"

Killeen murmured, "What's this, old Pawn Family saying?"
"Yeasay." Shibo was the only surviving Pawn member.
"No kind pain's good," Besen said reasonably.
"I give up," Toby said.

"Can't be real pain, right?" Shibo hinted with a slight smile.
"Fake pain?" Toby was puzzled.
"Right," Shibo said. "Champagne."

It was weak humor but they were weaker and everybody
laughed. Nobody had seen champagne since the Citadels and the
origin of the term was buried in antiquity. His Grey Aspect tried
to tell Killeen something about Family France but he lay back in
the warming sun and ignored her. Bishops repeated Shibo's joke
and he could hear the tired laughter work its way along the
ridgeline.

A rest can seem to last a long time when you need it and so
Killeen came back from a place far away when the voice said
loudly nearby, "So you have rejoined us?"

His Supremacy stood with his marching escort talking to Joce-


	TIDES OF LIGHT
	327


lyn. Killeen had not registered any of the conversation until this

point, but when he did sudden anger spiked through him.

"You left us out there," Jocelyn said flatly.

As Killeen got up, His Supremacy said grandly, "I determined

that your feint was insufficient."

"We lost plenty people!"

His Supremacy coughed slightly as a wreath of greasy smoke
drifted up from the valley. "In our heroic struggle there are
martyrs, of course."

"You ran oS" Jocelyn's fists were clenched.
"I used your diversion to effect an escape"
"You turned tail!"

" from our untenable situation. And I expect you to keep a
respectful tongue while addressing myself."

"We could have withdrawn if you'd told us. Before we reached
the valley floor."

"As I said--"

"I couldn't even raise you on deep comm. You wouldn't--"

"That is enough!" His Supremacy's eyes flickered with a strange
pale cast.

"I demand that you--"

"No one demands of God. You will now--"

"Some God! You're just a--"

His Supremacy made a small gesture with his hand. One of his
guards stepped smartly forward and clipped Jocelyn expertly on
the side of her head with a pistol, as if he had done the same thing
many times. She went down heavily and lay still.

"Stake her," His Supremacy said. "She is obviously ridden by
the demons she has battled."

He gazed out over the ridgeline where Bishops were gathering.
A knot of them had formed behind Killeen, who stood absolutely
still.

"And as well, I see there are others among the Bishops who
seem to neglect the holy nature of my office." This was plainly
calculated to throw fear into the Bishops.

A Bishop man shouted, "You're bunch cowards!"

"You turn 'n' run pretty quick, for a God," a woman called
sarcastically.

Some Bishops' hands began to creep toward their weapons but
His Supremacy's escort leveled theirs immediately, catching them
by surprise. His Supremacy said hotly, "I believe ! see demons
dancing in the eyes of many here. Careful of your wild talk."


	328
	Gregory Benford


"Keep your damn hands off Jocelyn," a voice yelled from the

knot behind Killeen.
"Yeasay!"
"Gutless bastard!"
"Yellowbellies!"
"Fatass poltroon!"

His Supremacy gestured slightly and two men in his escort
started toward the knot. They trotted forward, trying to see who
had yelled.

Killeen said, "Stop them or you'll have a fight."

His Supremacy gazed at him as though looking down at an

insect. "You would threaten the deputy of All Living Holiness?"
"Just predicting," Killeen said evenly.

--and as he finished saying it he clenched his jaw solidly shut
against a sudden boiling turmoil inside. The wedge at the back of
his mind was a swelling sore. Pressure bulged through him. His
vision narrowed down to a tight blue cone centered on the swarthy
face of the strutting little man.

His Supremacy raised a hand and his guard stopped. He licked
his lips and assessed the gathering crowd of Bishops. Killeen
wondered if the man had the stomach for a shootout at close
quarters. If so, a lot of people would die very quickly.

But then the curious vacant look came into His Supremacy's
eyes and Killeen saw that the man would try to talk himself out of
this.

Talk. Endless empty talk. All Killeen's buried anger and sorrow
rushed into his throat. Bile stung his mouth. A storm swept
from the jellied presence at the back of his mind, blowing through
him.

His Supremacy went on, "We are marching to meet again the
bountiful grace of God as it descends from heaven. I say to all you
brethren, turn away from these dectiers of the immaculate path.
Your Cap'n Jocelyn has erred gravely. She caused you many,
many tragic losses upon the exalted battlefield. Be rid of her.
Let--"

- .and compressed rage ripped the air like a scalding release.
Killeen felt a squeezing pulse of electromagnetic energy hum past
his shoulder. It refracted the air with its wake and struck His
Supremacy solidly in the head.

Killeen dove sidewise and hit the ground. The Cyber pulse
had come from above and his first thought was to find the source.
But as he rolled to his left he felt a sudden sweet dwindling of the


	TIDES OF LIGHT
	329


heavy wedge behind his head. He realized in a rush that it was his
Cyber who had fired the bolt. He sat up amid cries and shouts.

The little man who called himself His Supremacy was down.
Killeen somehow knew there was no more danger. He stood up
and walked to the crumpled form.

Tribe members gaped at their fallen leader. Confusion swept
them. They looked for the source of this assassination and saw
nothing.

The madman seemed even smaller in death. In repose Killeen
could see that the face had carried its expression of dignity and
power through sheer effort of will. Relaxed, it was an ordinary,
bland face. But that was not what caught his eye. The pulse had
fried away a big section of His Supremacy's temples where the
comm gear and sensorium were lodged. The violence of the
overheating had blown the entire molding material out of the head,
revealing something beneath.

All along the skull lining lay an elaborately gridded inset. The
heavy mesh was embedded below the ordinary gear.

Killeen knelt and plucked at it. Through his enhanced nerves
he felt a repellent strumming sensation. The reek struck solidly at
his memories.

"Mechtech," he said. He peeled back more skin.

Shibo squatted next to him. Her eyes widened when she
saw the intricate sheath all around the crown of the head.
It tapped into the brain directly with myriad connections.
"Micro'tronics."

"No scars on the scalp. Been in here awhile, I'd judge,"
Killeen said tightly.

"What . . . what could it . . ." Shibo said.

"They must've got him before the Cybers ever came here. He
was leadin' the Tribe by then and this must've been how he got
that high."

"They could give orders directly this way."

"Yeasay. And be sure they were followed." Killeen looked
cautiously at the Tribe members nearby but they all seemed in
shock. They stared at the shattered head in confusion. He wondered
what this would do to their precious faith.

Shibo said, "I guess when the Cybers came, mechs turned him
against them."

"Yeasay. That's why he wouldn't allow anything but attack,
never mind the cost."


	330
	Gregory Benford

"This . . ." She seemed unable to say the words. "Humans
run by mechs . . ."
"We're just pawns here."
"It must have been awful. He was trapped inside there."
"Poor bastard. He wasn't just crazy after all."



Chapter EIGHTEEN

Quath squeezed her shot cleanly between the Noughts. The narrow
spike struck soundly against the strange mech-ridden Nought.
She felt the inner mech presence disintegrate, fragments and
figments whirling off into emptiness. Good.
Her plan, hatched all through the smoldering night, hung only
moments from completion. Until minutes ago, the Noughts had
been perfectly arranged. She had only to act.
But then had come this squabble among the Noughts. And far
worse, the arrival of Beq'qdahl nearby. Quath could feel her
elegant plan slipping away.
Time slowed for her. Her subminds sorted and arrayed the
flashflood of implications.
The mech parasite had been cleverly concealed. Quath had
fieetingly felt it before, on the mountaintop. But the muggy
Nought minds had obscured the steel-edged intelligence that scurried
shadow-thin whenever Quath probed.
In the instant of killing, the mech lurker splashed open. Quath
caught the maggot essence of it, the delicate, mosaic power. It
had cleverly fastened upon a Nought weakness. Quath stretched
and snared the scent of that Nought flaw: a black, festering need,
heavy and clogged with bloodknot pain.
Yes! With monumental irony, this poisoning soft spot hinged
upon the Noughts' great strength. Their wisdom, she knew, flowered
forth from their keening sense of mortality. That gave them
the sure grasp of each passing moment as unique and, if one
peered remorselessly into it, luminescent.
Yet from that bedrock strength many Noughts fled. Their
dewy fever drew them to fantasies of being not Noughts at all, but
instead the most powerful of agencies, somehow linked with the
embodiment of all nature itself. Madness! Surely wisdom meant
accepting your station in a hierarchy of life and intelligence. To
claim grotesquely huge powers belied all that life taught.

331


	332
	Gregory Benford


But in grasping this Nought facet Quath saw that her own
podia were equally foolish. The Verities, the Synthesis--were
they any different? To claim a connectedness between self and
inert matter. To intone beliefs in unseen powers.

Clever mechs, to see this Nought vulnerability. A bitter chill
ran through Quath as she realized that the mechs must then
fathom the deepest motivations of the podia, as well.

After such knowledge, the mechs must have enormous advantage
over the podia. Why, then, had they allowed podia to seize
this planet so easily?

Quath felt the very ground slipping away beneath her, all in
the fractional instant that her minds knitted together thin threads
of suspicion that had been waiting for so long.

Yes!--there was more to the mechs than the podia had ever
guessed. Her subminds rattled off long-smoldering riddles:

Their introduction of these Noughts and the ancient ship into
the struggle with the podia.

The strange mech experiments near pulsars, never explained.

Their defense of Galactic Center against all lifeforms, for unknown
purposes.

Of course, one of Quath's subminds argued, energy densities
were great here. Mechs were supreme at harnessing the raw flux
of currents and photons. Life was more vulnerable to such hard
energies. In the natural scheme of matters, organic life would not
naturally be drawn to dwell near the all-gnawing appetite of the
black hole. Even the podia, encrusted with ceramics and tough
alloys, suffered from the ripping hail of protons in deep space. The
soft Noughts were far more threatened by the endless sleeting
effusions of the hole.

Yet they came. Why? Quath had never pondered this mystery
to its depths--indeed, until this moment, had not seen it as a
profound puzzle.

All life, whether swaddled in bone or carapace or filmy flesh,
seemed to feel that Galactic Center held a goal, a secret. A clue,

perhaps, to the meaning of their brief passage.

But what did they seek? Why?

Did the Illuminates know? The simple fact that those lordly
beings had split over the destiny and use of a mere Nought argued
otherwise.

Could the Noughts hold some crucial tidbit of the puzzle?
Suddenly the notion did not seem entirely mad.

Quath reeled for the smallest fragment of an instant. Then the


	TIDES OF LIGHT
	333


ageold lessons asserted themselves. She focused outward, beyond
the raucous elamor of her subminds.

For the worst had come. Beq'qdahl's gang now moved to
attack.

Quath had lain hidden among the broken strata above where
the Noughts clustered. Their rear guard had c. lready passed and
their destination lay not far beyond.

Here the faults were like fracture planes snapped off in midair.
Shelves of stone jutted at a platinum sky. Beq'qdahl and his podia
had erept among these to within easy range of the Noughts, who
milled in confusion.

Quath caught the ready signal from Beq'qdahl. They would
wreak havoc. She had to give the Noughts time and warning.

<Hold!> Quath called. She let the signal scatter through the
spectrum. Her Nought was sure to sense it.

Beq'qdahl jerked with surprise. <Quath!>

<Yes, traitor. >

<You have dogged us, hurt

<You disobey the Tukar'ramin. There was a time when you
would have rather bitten off half your legs.

<There was a time when you were not a fool. >

<Oh, was there? Perhaps it was when I helped your vain
self. >

Beq'qdahl was cautious, striving to conceal her anger. <Ambition
is no sin. >

<Nor loyalty. >

<I follow the Illuminates!>

<Some Illuminates. >

<Stand clear of these animals while we do our work. Then we

shall deal with you. >

<No, you'll deal

Quath sent a hard, prickly burst toward Beq'qdahl's voice. It
scattered among the walls of rock.

The battle began. Quath ran and dodged. She had chosen her
position well. Her superior equipment enabled her to block most
shots. She disabled three podia with quick, stuttering pulses. But
her armaments were wearing thin.

Beq'qdahl was the key. The others would flee if their leader
fell. Quath reached out with a cone-shaped aura and touched
Beq'qdahl.

Now she saw into Beq'qdahl's true self. Her goals were simple.
Lounging in burr-rich strands. Sucking down sweetbreads and


	334
	Gregory Benford

plotting meanness, guilty only of casual malice and ignorance,
stuffed with a bland assurance of self.
Beq'qdahl would have been no worse than this, but for the
distant conflict of Illuminates. For such a minor, accidental matter,
should she die?
Quath could not reason the question. Had her Philosoph genes
left her alone, she knew, these vexing issues would not even arise.
Gathering herself, she rushed forward.
The moment came when Beq'qdahl was exposed and Quath
could not fire.
She clambered instead over the last upturned layers of fractured
strata and ran pell-mell into the milling band of firing,
fleeing Noughts.
Cries, shrieks, bangs. They brushed against her like passing
motes. Her superior shields were up and their bolts were no more
than pesky itches.
Her Nought! There! Shedding opalescent waves of heat. Helping
another Nought to its--no, her feet.
But Beq'qdahl had now seen which was Quath's Nought. Quath
could see Beq'qdahl carefully aiming for the small figure.
Still Quath could not fire. This was Beq'qdahl, strandsharer.
Beq'qdahl . . .
The simmering presence of her Nought abruptly broke through
Quath with rainsquail momentum. It--no, he--comprehended
the quicksilver essence of the moment. He turned and picked
Beq'qdahl out froin the jumbled landscape.
Aimed. Fired.
And Beq'qdahl burst open. Flames leaped from the holed bulk
of her.
Quath felt a jolt of sudden pain. She heard dismayed anguish
leak from Beq'qdahl. It spattered through the spectrum.
Her friend and rival was dying. The projectile weapon of the
Nought had breached her main compartment. Fragments lodged
in Beq'qdahl's subminds. Unless Quath hastened to salvage what
scraps she could, Beq'qdahl would dwindle, ebb, die.
Leaden remorse filled Quath. But she kept on.
Toward her Nought. Ignoring the stings and arrows of the
harrying crowd around her.
Toward the appointment she had made with the whirl and
gyre of gravity and time.

Chapter NINETEEN

Shibo fell before the first volley.
The Cybers opened up from the shattered ridgeline above.
Their timing was perfect. His Supremacy's escort was still star-tied,
confused, scrambling for cover.
Killeen had just started to get up when he felt the stinging bolt
go by his leggings and saw it strike Shibo a glancing hit. She
toppled forward from her knees. No visible damage on her suit. A
tech-disabling shot, then. He grasped her shoulder and rolled her
over.
"Close . . . that time," she gasped.
"Can you feel your legs?"
"Yeasay."
"Arms?"
"Yea... yeasay."
"Move 'em."
The pulse had knocked out most of her exskell. It heaved and
jerked in a dying spasm. The riblike frame wheezed, purred, and
went dead. Without it she had less strength than even the simplest
augmentation of leggings and shocks gave. She would not get
far if they had to run.
And it looked like they would. The Cybers were cutting up the
escort guard.
"Can you walk?" he asked.
"Don't know. Head's lfl wobbly. Her"
She got up onto one elbow and grunted with the effort of rising
to her knees. A pulse ripped by with a loud whoooom.
Killeen started to help her further and into his mind came a
sharp, pointed imperative. Something was narrowing down on his
back. He felt it as a circle of compressed heat. It rasped against his
sensorium.
He spun away. A bolt frayed the air where he had been.
For the first time in their long battle with the Cybers Killeen

335


	336
	Gregory Benford


had a sudden, sure knowledge of where the fire came from. His
sensorium Dopplered back along the bolt path and found among
the rocks a smudge of greasy fog.

He knew immediately that this was his enemy. Unbidden, he
felt its raw immensity. It was a mind that came from a place of
shining movements, from moist dark spaces, from velocities bleak
and hard. All this sudden, crisp certainty came streaming from the
gravid wedge that rode in the back of his mind.

He rolled to his left. The enemy probed for him through the
thickening haze of electrodeception that flutried across the rugged
slope. A blizzard of flickering images cycloned by. It swirled
through the milling mob of humans as they scattered.

He fumbled for his last projectile weapon. Clicked it into
place. Sighted carefully--

--and felt intruding a feathery streamer of sorrow and hesitation.
Not his.

The somber emotion washed through him, stilling his hand.
Reasonless, it spoke only of regret.

Killeen sucked in air to break free of the heavy, choking mood.
Shibo gasped nearby, "Leave me. Get clear. I'll be"
He fired. The bolt hit just where he had known to aim.

Instantly the air cleared. The snow-squall of flitting electro-deceptions
was gone.

Through a compacted instant Killeen felt a sad spike of longing.
Again it came as a flowing, many-streamered emission, from
the shadow-blue weight behind his mind.

He saw Besen was well sheltered downslope. Toby--

His son was firing carefully from slight cover nearby. Killeen
called to him, "Fall back!" Toby came running.

"Come on," he grunted, hauling Shibo to her feet. She wobbled
weakly.

Hissing bolts refracted through the nearby air. Splashes of
infrared strobed running figures into flash pictures of desperation.
Microwaves rattled.

And something else boomed down from the vault above,

He and Toby got Shibo down the steepest slope. They were
making for the shelter of a dry wash when Killeen felt rather than
heard the hammering sound of pursuit. A massive thing bore
down on them. He barely had time to turn and glimpse the
crusted, warty hide.

It loomed even larger this time. The barrel-chested trunk had
a glazed ceramic cast. Great shanks of carbo-alum worked noisily


	TIDES OF LIGHT
	337


to carry the thing forward. lie could not clearly see the head.
Encrusted antennae and projectors sprouted like gleaming weeds
on the wrinkled, fertile hide. A shimmering protection enveloped

it. It moved to block shots coming toward them.

Then it was upon them,

A hurtling jolt. Scrabbling haste. Many-ribbed fingers snatching
at them.

They slammed into resilient webbing. Jostling shadows heaved
them roughly. Oh no, Killeen thought. Again.

They were inside the Cyber. A cutting reek swarmed in his
nostrils. Again he felt the mucous-moist compartment close about
him. Shibo's grasp eased and she lay back into the foamy stuff. A
blur of mad acceleration took them away.

Killeen saw that Shibo was bleeding. It hadn't been only a tech
hit, then. He cursed himself.

Her eyelids fluttered and her system indices rolled meaning-lessly,
so her internals were damaged as well. He ignored the
thumping progress of the Cyber and slapped a quick patch on her

belly where the rich blood oozed forth.
"Toby! Got a stim bulb?"
"No... no, I--"

"Damn!" He had used his last on Besen.

"You... hang on. I'll get..." He could not finish because he
had no idea what he could do.

Shibo heard him and turned. She could not speak. Fresh light
broke across her dazed features.

Killeen turned to find that the entire wall of the Cyber's body
had gone transparent.

The Cyber covered ground with lurching strides. They were
already beyond the frantic running forms of the battle. It carried
them jolting down the ridgeline. He saw Tribe members fire at
the Cyber but the shots had no impact. The Cyber reached the
tree line and plunged into the cloaking shelter.

Killeen saw now that the apparently glassy wall was in fact a
projection, an image. He watched the forest shoot by. His senso-rium
still functioned, though it was fuzzed by errant stripes and

flecks. He reached out--and felt something high and massive.
"Damn," he said, disbelieving.

"What?" Toby asked. He held on to the moist webbing that
enclosed them.

"Something above us. In the air. The Cyber's 'fraid."
"Mech?" Toby braced himself against the fast, rocking pace.


	338
	Gregory Benford


The Cyber's many legs came slamming down in a strong, rippling
cadence.

"Naysay--" Killeen's throat tightened, squeezing off his breath.

He could speak no more. Swelling anxiety reached him, punching
through all insulation between his mind and the other's.

The Cyber was terrified of what it had to do next. Yet a sense
of duty propelled the thing swiftly forward.

They suddenly swerved. The wall scene of rushing emerald
veered upward. The trees' symmetrically spreading limbs crisscrossed
the blue above like cabling. And in that deep blue a dark
spot grew.

The great long stripe came down the sky like a plunging rod.
Out of the west the slim shape swept, poking at them like an
enormous pointing finger. Now they could see that the Skysower
had the color of ancient wood. Along its length carbon-dark veins
laminated the deep mahogany. Vines wriggled over the great
stretched slabs that gleamed like polished teak.

All this Killeen took in in an instant as his Aspects cried out.
Grey said:


It moves . . . around the equator... so comes down . . .
different spot each time... sowing...


Killeen felt the Cyber gathering itself around them. He held
Shibo and whispered to Toby, "Lie down." He worked himself fiat
on the spongy cushion.


So large . . . a third of the planet's radius . . . although is
spinning . . . looks to us . . . as though . . . it falls straight
down... and lifts off... nearly vertically...


Killeen caught the tightwound anxiety that permeated the
Cyber, its struggle to quell an ageold terror. The conflict seemed
like a babble of separate voices at cross-purposes. Ancient alarms
rang and reasoned tones urged caution, while others adamantly
urged the Cyber to do what it knew it must. A cacophony beset it.

No, not it--she. He intuitively sensed that the thing was female.
Yes--but in a strange, dry, mechanical sense of the term.

He sent blunt encouragement to her. She faced a challenge,
he knew.

Go, he sent. Do it.

And in the quick-swimming thoughts of the Cyber he felt its


	TIDES OF LIGHT
	339


victory over its own primordial fears. One solemn, clear voice
towered above the mad crosstalk.

Her triumph over herself was announced by a throaty roar that
burst under their compartment. Thrust pressed them deep into
the folds of foam. The Cyber was flying.

The wall showed a swooping view of trees as great thick trunks
rushed past. The Cyber rose through them on its flaring jets. In a
moment they banked and soared across a broad leafy plain that
was the top of the forest. Killeen looked down on the huge platter
of the world below, scarred and stained and cut. The treetops
were bare. Their thick branches curled over to form the familiar
umbrella effect.

The view tilted again, veering around to peer upward. The
stubby nub end of the Skysower came rushing toward them.

But no seeds popped forth. Instead, long ropy vines curled
out. They descended with blurring speed.

Killeen watched one flash past the Cyber. It was close enough
for him to glimpse smaller black strands that coiled helically
around each other, like the strong ropes he had known in the
Citadel.

Dozens of these tendrils shot toward the forest below. The
Skysower's downward speed flung them into the treetops. Some
snagged in the bare branches there. Along these a reflexive tension
ran. They suddenly tightened.

Killeen watched great undulations ripple down the snagged
vines. He sucked in his breath as he saw what was about to
happen--and before he could breathe again it was done.

Each caught vine heaved upward. Simultaneously, alongside
the Cyber, the Skysower's tip reached its lowest point. For a
prolonged instant of popping strain the great broad nub hung in
the air, drifting eastward. Then it began to rise with gathering
momentum.

At this instant the whiplash effect sent a surge along the
extended vines. They yanked the trees upward. Some upper
branches split and gave way. But others held. With a sudden
lurch the trees came free of the soil.

They shot up from the forest, trailing their root systems. As if
shaking themselves free of their planet, the trees lashed at the end
of their tethers, spraying clods of dirt. Retracting vines brought
the trees into a herd below the Skysower's blunt end.

As this happened Killeen felt a solid thunk. The wall screen


	340
	Gregory Benford


veered again. They were attached to the side of the Skysower.
The Cyber's legs extended grapplers and clung to the surface.

Killeen could see bushes and shrubs nearby. The Cyber grabbed
these tufts. It also quickly bored shafts into the knotty surface.

He felt immediately the reason why. The air in their cramped
compartment seemed to gain a weight of its own, pressing them
down. His Arthur Aspect said:


You should be prepared for substantial acceleration. Grey
calculates that we must endure over two normal gravities
within a few more seconds.


A vast hand mashed Killeen into the floor. It grasped his chest
and would not let him breathe. Toby lay pale and drawn on the
other side of the compartment. "Shibo . . ." he got out, but no
more. She lay still and white.

Time slowed to a plodding succession of painful heart thuds.
Killeen's sensorium seemed filled with wet sand.

Hollow, drawn-out thumps and pops reverberated through the
compartment. He tried to reach for Shibo's hand. Even with his
motored right arm his fingers could not crawl across the slight
space between them.


This acceleration is partly gravity and partly centripetal. As
we rise, the gravitational component lessens as the inverse
square. The centripetal fraction, however, is constant and--


Killeen moved his lips soundlessly. "How . . . long . . ."


I estimate from observation (not that Grey is any use in
this--she is really quite spotty in her recollections) that the
object touches down into the atmosphere roughly every
twenty minutes. We should experience less than two gravities
for one-quarter of this period, as we swing up. That will occur
in about five minutes. However, we face a worse problem
before that. In fact, the effects are becoming apparent.


Killeen's ears popped.


We are leaving the atmosphere.


It was hopeless. His arms were leaden logs. He could not
reach his helmet to twist the screw-seal. And he did not know if


	TIDES OF LIGHT
	341


the rugged treatment of the last few days had kept the O-rings
intact.

Wind whistled through the compartment.

The shrill sound came from hair-thin seams in the wall.

For a long moment as the immense hand continued to squeeze
him, Killeen could think of nothing. Then he marshaled his thoughts
and let a pointed, simple message sit solidly in the forefront of his
mind.

A strumming answer came. Cloudy, diffuse, as if it issued from

several throats at once. The Cyber's voice.

Yes. We will try.

Something slapped against the outside skin of the Cyber. A
sticky blue glob oozed out along the seam lines. The whistling
died. An acrid smoke rose from the blue fluid. Killeen knew it was
some internal pap the Cyber used. It gave off a foul odor. He
fought an impulse to cough and retch. But the seams held. The
screech of escaping air died away.

The immense weight now lessened. Killeen could turn his
head a fraction and see the screen wall.

Outside, the Skysower stretched up into blueblack emptiness.
He was looking along the great chestnut-colored length of it.
Shrubs nearby were flattened against the rough bark. The wind's
high howl tore fruitlessly at them.

Skysower was a great cable stretching into the steadily darkening
sky. Ebony laminations reached along it. Ash-blond segments like
cross-struts connected these into a grid. They hugged the woody
curve of the bark and the fierce gale could find no edge to pry
them up.

The solid, implacable roar made their compartment vibrate
like a living thing. Its hammering ferocity rose. Killeen wondered
how long even the Cyber's strength could hold it moored there.

Suddenly the noise muted as though someone had thrown a
switch.


We are exceeding the speed of sound, I believe.


Along the towering length Killeen saw thin hickory-colored
edges rise. They were like ailerons, seulpting the air. Long,
strumming notes came through to Killeen.


It appears to be guiding itself like a giant flying wing. Net
acceleration is lessening as we rise into the upper atmosphere.
The structure is relaxing.


	342
	Gregory Benford


Pops and creaks rang out.

"I . . . what's . . ." Toby got out between clenched teeth.
"Hold on."
"Besen . . ."

"She's quick." Killeen tried to fill his voice with reassurance.
"She'll get away from that fight."

Shibo's wound was worse. He tightened her bandage but
working against the heavy acceleration made him clumsy. The
systems damage worried him most. He wished he could tell Toby
something to relieve the anxiety he read in the boy's face. He had
no idea where they were going.


If the Cyber can cling to this for another fifteen minutes we
may be able to leap off. Then we will be one-sixth of the
way around the planet's equator and quite beyond the
dangers of the other Cybers.


"Yeasay," Killeen managed to say. "And we'll slam into the
ground."


True, our total acceleration downward will be considerable,
about 2.4 gravities. But at the optimum moment, as the tip
hovers over the surface, we can in principle simply step off,
with only a net sidewise velocity. Then perhaps the Cyber
can fly us to safety.


Such theoretical events seemed far away compared with the
eyeling of Shibo's indices. Her face was untroubled and chalk
white.

Outside, the last haze of blue faded into hard blaek. Nearby
stars bit brightly at his eyes. Molecular clouds gave their gauzy
wash to the vault.

Killeen's thoughts came like thick syrup. The immense hand
that pressed him to the floor had eased for a while. Now it leaned
harder. His chest ached with the effort of breathing. He wondered
distantly how long their air in the cramped compartment would
last.


We shall be in high vacuum for about eight minutes more. I
believe you can survive easily.


But Arthur did not feel the gathering ache that spread from his
chest and into his arms and legs. Much more of this and Shibo


	TIDES OF LIGHT
	343


would lose consciousness--which might not be a bad idea, except
that Killeen did not know what they would have to do to survive.
If the Cyber failed . . .

He could no longer afford the luxury of speculation. Living
was labor enough. He turned his attention to the increasing effort
of forcing breath into his lungs. His heart thudded in slow, tortured
beats.

He grasped with leaden fingers for Shibo. A slight labored
heave told him she still breathed.

Sluggishly he formulated a question and displayed it across his
fevered and frayed consciousness.

We are Quath)'utt'kkal'thon. We carried you before.
"What... happens..."

We must cautiously adjust our dynamics.

Killeen could not understand. As he watched, the ivory curve
of the planet rolled up in the wall screen. Farther away the cosmic
string hung unmoving, a dull amber arc.

He felt the Cyber sway and rock in slow undulations. He could
see great long swells racing toward them from the center of the
Skysower. Waves excited by the air turbulence. As they reflected
at the tip they gave it a sharp snap, like a whip cracking. The Cyber
held on grimly.

Vibrations had moved his hand away from Shibo. He rolled to
look at her and pain lanced into his shoulder. Her eyelids were
sunken. He could not tell if she was still alive.

As they rose farther above the planet the whole disk became
visible. Repeated sucking of the core metal had smashed the
outlines of mountain ranges. Rivers now cut fresh paths. Lakes
had spilled into new muddy reservoirs, leaving enormous bare
brown plains.

He could see all of Skysower now. It curved like a slender
snake that smoothly turned head over tail. The far end was just
piercing the atmosphere. Undulations ran like waves in a long
string, driven by the supersonic collision of this gargantuan living
being with its blanket of air.

As he watched he slowly realized that some of the thicker
vines nearby were throbbing. Bulges in them contracted rhythmically.
It came to him that Skysower had to circulate its fluids, like
any living thing. These coarse, chestnut-brown tubes were like
vegetable hearts, working against the eternal outward thrust that
came from Skysower's spin. Somewhere beneath the grainy bark
something like muscles must be sliding and clenching, to righten


	344
	Gregory Benford


displacements and masses and maintain the even turning of the
huge whirling organism.

Suddenly, at the edge of his vision, he saw plumes of gas burst
forth at the nearby teak-colored horizon. Luminous geysers caught
the sun's rays. From the Cyber he caught a thread of understanding.
To keep itself rotating, this huge thing breathed in air during
its passage. Then it exhaled, perhaps burning the gases in some
fashion to gain added thrust. This paid back the momentum stolen
by the atmosphere's supersonic turbulence.

All this came to him as he fought the sure rise of pressure
against his chest. He thought distantly now, barely able to hold on
to consciousness against the worsening weight.

Then something rushed by them and caught his attention. A
second tubular shape passed nearby and he saw that hot yellow
balls burned at regular intervals along its length. He remembered
the forest fire. These were the trees that the vines had snagged
from the forest below.

Against blurring pressure he still managed to feel surprise.
The forests of umbrella-topped trees--they must have grown from
the Skysower's own seeds. Snatched up on the harvesting vines,
they had now been carried aloft. Some deep biochemical command
had activated their stores of fuel. Far from being a mech
energy resource, as Killeen had guessed, these trees were now
expending their stored chemical energy to launch themselves
away from their mother plant.

Another tree shot past. Yellow plumes pushed it to high velocity.
It hurtled after its fellows, which were already shrinking logs.


After conferring with Grey (not an easy business, I assure
you) I calculate that our speed exceeds thirteen kilometers
per second. In your terms--


"Skip the techtalk," Killeen muttered. "What's it mean?"


This creaturesand I do not necessarily agree that it is simply
a plant, given its many animallike functions, including an
active circulation system--is spreading its progeny. They leave
it here, at the top of its arc, with maximal velocity. They can
easily reach the outer precincts of this solar system. From
there they can drift to other stars. Seeding, pure and simple.


Killeen stared at Shibo and thought fruitlessly, rummaging for
some way to repair her systems' failure. She grew whiter.


TIDES OF LIGHT


345


I am repeating the speculations of the Grey woman, of
course. I have done the calculations and what she proposes
is marginally within possibility.


"So ... so in every one of those trees there's a seed for
another Skysower?"

Killeen could barely breathe. He watched the trees jet away on
their columns of flame. To swim the sea of stars. To grow into
more Skysowers. Life persistent and undeniable. They hung within
view over the still body of Shibo.

His bones seemed to stretch. He grasped for Shibo and could
not reach her. Distant bass notes came strumming through the
Cyber's body as waves made the woody surface thrash and twist.

Suddenly the Cyber freed its hold on the bark. All of its visible
legs withdrew their steel grapplers and instead pushed against the
brown surface. Instantly the oppressive weight lifted. Killeen
floated in complete freedom.

"Are you--" He hugged Shibo. Did her eyes flutter?

In complete silence the Cyber rose away from Skysower's slim
silhouette. The turning ribbon now pointed straight down into the
wounded planet.

They shot out along a tangent to Skysower's whirling arc. Soon
it had rotated below them. It was again a thin line cutting across
the face of the ruined world.

We are properly pointed, the strangely liquid thoughts of the
Cyber came. My sisters have stilled the Cosmic Circle so it pre-

sents no obstacle. We are entering a rendezvous orbit.

"Where?"

Close to the station. Your vessel lies there. There is a task
awaiting your kind.

"Hurry! There're medical supplies on Argo"

Killeen peered ahead and saw a glimmering that beckoned and
promised.

But Shibo died long before they could reach it.


EPILOG


SAILING WITH THE TIDE


The Cap'n walked the hull again.

A long time seemed to have passed since he last was here.
Only a few weeks, he knew. But time was not truly measured by
the ticking of unseen arbiters. It made its lasting marks in the soul.

In that distant time he had watched the approach of the
station, wondering what forces marshaled there. Problems of command
had vexed him. He had fretted over whether to assault the
huge, silvery construction. He could see the station now, tooa
platinum-hard dab of light swimming near the brown crescent of
New Bishop.

The name mocked him. The Bishops had found the same age-old
trials here. This place had meant more struggle, not a peaceful
destination. And losses. Huge, bitter losses.

"Shibo," he said. "Is this link working?"

The light voice came hesitantly. --I, I, yeasay.--

"Toby?"

--I'm here, Dad.-

Yes, Killeen thought, we're all here. Together in the only way
possible now.

Toby lay in the control vault with complex apparatus enclosing
his head. Close comm link brought his voice to Killeen. And
Shibo... she was only an Aspect of Toby's now.

"You sure this won't do you harm?" Killeen asked.

--No, Dad. I trust her techcraft.--

Through Toby, Shibo had engineered this union. Normally an
Aspect could never speak through its host. The term for that was
"Aspect storm" and Family would take immediate measures to
pull the offending Aspect chips from the host's neck.


347


	348
	Gregory Benford


But this was different. Killeen was tapped directly into Toby's
sense of Shibo. The intricate meshing was Shibo's invention and,
used cautiously, might extend the Family's abilities. She had
modified techniques known to Family Pawn, she said. There had
been no call for such a trick before, one that verged on Family
taboos.

Now it was pure necessity. Only Shibo's deft command of Argo
could save them.

"Any better fix on that Cyber ship?"

Shibo's wispy Aspect voice replied, --It has executed another
dodging maneuver.--

"Damn! What's Quath say?"

Toby answered, --She's calibratin' somethin'. You want, ! can
tap her in here.--

"Naysay, let her work. Her last estimate said we still got a few
minutes before they start firin'."

--Argo is ready,-- Shibo sent reassuringly.

He still had trouble getting used to her voice. It was a fully
incorporating Aspect and gave every appearance of a complete
operating personality. He and Toby had managed to get Shibo's
body into the recording room of Argo before there was significant
damage from oxygen loss. The machines had spoken of potassium
balances and digital matching matrices but it had all taken place
someplace far from him, under glass.

He knew from sad experience that some people survived
grotesquely bloody wounds while others seemed to die of a scratch.
That had not helped when Shibo had slipped away from them, her
systems simply tapering to zero.

Toby had taken the Aspect, of course. Not simply because
Family rules were firmly against carrying a dead lover; that was
inviting disaster. No, the overpowering reason had been that
Killeen was too shaken to accept Shibo's Aspect. He had recovered
only when her voice spoke to him through Toby. She had
chided him and somehow dragged him back into the world. He
had clung to her voice.

But it was only a voice. He would never see her again, never

touch her silky skin, see the glinting mirth in her eyes--

He made himself stop. It was pointless. Stupid.

Killeen had told himself this a hundred times through the last
few days. His emotions were held in check only by the necessity
of command. Chaos would not wait for his grief to abate.

He looked back at the crescent of New Bishop. Explosions still


	TIDES OF LIGHT
	349


flickered there on the nightside. Cyber conflict still raged. Quath's
allies seemed to have the upper hand now, though.

The Family had been fortunate to take only a few dozen
casualties there. Only because humans mattered so little had they
been able to slip away.

Cermo and Jocelyn had been resourceful and brave in getting
the Family off the planet. In the chaos that followed His Supremacy's
death, they had held the Family together and slipped away
from the Tribe.

The revelation that His Supremacy was a mech interloper had
been enough to shatter the Tribal organization. The remaining
Cybers had inflicted more casualties, but they, too, had seemed
leaderless.

Jocelyn's dash and Cermo's confidence in the face of what
seemed utter disaster had extracted Family Bishop with deft timing.
Killeen knew well the difficulties of such a maneuver, the
most intricate of all tactical feats. He had decorated both officers.

None of their work on the ground would have meant anything
without Quath's help, of course. She had steered the sleek Flitter
craft down to the surface, understanding that the Family had to be
kept intact.

In the warfare between Cybers a mere band of fleeing humans
was now irrelevant. The Flitters had managed to get off again with
the Family aboard. No one fired at them.

Some members of the Tribe had rushed toward the shuttles
when they saw the landings. They had gathered at the Bishop
perimeter and begged to go, too.

Killeen had been adamant. He could not trust anyone from a
Tribe already infiltrated by mech-ridden humans. They had taken
most of Family Seben and some other ragtag elements of the
Tribe. But once aboard, each was carefully inspected. Three proved
to have mech inlay riders in their skulls.

They were killed. The decision had been a bitter one, but he
had to make it. For a while he tortured himself with the admission
that the decision was easier since he had not done the killing
himself. But Jocelyn and Cermo had carried out his wishes without
hesitation. In many ways, he reflected, they were tougher
than he could ever be.

We have word which may reconcile you to the outcome, came
Quath's diffuse message.
The bulky alien was inside the ship, but that did not impede


	350
	Gregory Benford

communication between them. Killeen still did not know how this
was done and expected he never would.
The alien did not speak in clear sentences. Killeen had to
frame the filmy impressions he received into something resembling
words before he could fully comprehend. It was like groping
through a fog while fitful chill breezes struck you in the face. Each
touch brought new comprehension. Equally, each brush left unanswerable
questions in its wake. And the mist remained.
Killeen could not follow Quath's meaning. "How so?"
The Tukar'ramin now prevails in her struggle. Remnant elements
flee. The Illuminates of good spirit shall emerge triumphant.
Much of this gave Killeen only a diffuse sense of the vast
events playing out around New Bishop. He knew now, after only
days of direct communication with Quath, that he would never
fathom all the alien tried to convey. Much of Quath's explanations
were unintelligible. The Illuminates were superior intelligences,
apparently, but not above resolving disagreement by force. Kil-leen's
task was to see that their conflicts did not casually and
unthinkingly destroy his Family.
"How's that affect us?"
The Tukar'ramin will guarantee that those of your kind left
behind shall be allowed to live.
Killeen sent Quath several questions before he was sure this
was what the alien meant. When he finally believed it a weight
rose from him. While Family Bishop owed the Tribe a debt for
taking them in, that had been canceled by His Supremacy's betrayal.
Still, he was glad that the vestiges of humanity left behind
could survive.
"Send my thanks," Killeen said. The words were inadequate
but he knew that Quath sensed his true feelings and would convey
them to whatever the Tukar'ramin was.
Hope rose in him. "Does this mean whatever's followin' us'11
stop?"
This time the answer was clear:
No. The renegade elements launched this attack ship after us
as one of their final measures. It cannot be recalled. When it
comes within range it will fire.
"You can deflect whatever it's got?"
Once, perhaps twice. Not for long.
Quath's answer came laced with somber forebodings. The alien
hoped and feared, but other emotions which Killeen could not
name flowed beneath the surface. They seemed more like quick

	TIDES OF LIGHT
	351

bursts of separate lives, fragments of possibility. He was never sure
which facet of Quath he spoke to. Sometimes the alien was extraordinarily
patient. Other times he felt as though he were talking
to a harried servant while the master of the house was preoccupied
elsewhere.
But at least the alien's nature might slowly unfold. Other
riddles would never be answered. Killeen amped his opticals and
could just barely make out the rim of New Bishop. The Cyber
warrens were huge now, a belt circling far out from the planet.
Could such massive mazes truly clasp and tame the energy of a
whole sun? The task seemed daunting even for creatures who
could suck to cores from worlds.
A still deeper puzzle spun at the rim of New Bishop. Slow
movement told him that Skysower churned on. More shadowy
mystery.
He would never know if that entity was a natural consequence
of life or an engineering construct made by beings of ancient and
daunting ability. He could scarcely believe that it carried out such
massive purpose while obeying the timeless commands of embedded
chemistry and genetics. Such complexity seemed impossible
without intelligence. Yet Killeen had to admit that he knew nothing
of events on this scale. As a lower-order intelligence, he was
surely no good judge of limits.
--That Cyber ship's fired somethin' at us,-- Shibo's clipped
voice came to him.
Killeen called, "Range and time?"
--Can't tell. Closing fast.-- Her voice still sent a pang through
him.
"What's . . . what's it doing?"
--More dodging, looks like.-- The Shibo Aspect was crisp and
efficient. He had to remember that she had not truly suffered her
own death and its aftermath. This Shibo was the woman who last
remembered being scooped up by Quath. She would be that
person eternally.
"Crew ready at locks?" he asked.
--Yessir,-- Jocelyn answered. --Suited up.--"Check
the seals again."
--Done that already.-- "I said again."
Jocelyn had been subdued since she and Cermo returned to Argo. Her leadership during the Family's escape from the Tribe
had partly repaired the antagonism between her and Killeen.


	352
	Gregory Benford

Once aboard Argo she had mutely accepted Killeen as Cap'n,
never asserting herself. Still, Killeen knew that Jocelyn's ambition
had been damped but not destroyed.

A pause. "How's it going?" he prompted.
--Uh, we found a small problem.--"What?"
he demanded impatiently.

--Seal is broken. We're patching it again.-The
chagrined note in Jocelyn's voice gave Killeen a small,
pleasurable smile. He had made all crew that could be spared
from crucial ship operations work incessantly on the sewage-soaked
corridors. The elements of Family Seben and other Tribal remnants
had been rebellious, but he had sternly broken their
resistance.

Someone had to do the job, after all. Quath had blundered
through Argo while it was abandoned. She had found the Legacies
but in the process had opened the deck where the plumbing had
mailed. Now the mess covered three decks. They had sealed off
the offending zone, using vacuum-worthy sealants.

The irksome task had consumed much labor which might have
gone into erecting defenses . . . though it was unlikely that any
puny human weapons would count much in the coming encounter.
Argo had nothing beyond simple shields.

The approaching Cyber missiles might be fooled by Quath at
first, but she was sure they were intelligent weapons. That meant
each incoming missile learned from observing the one before it. If
Quath failed . . .

Killeen tried to catch a glimpse of the approaching enemy.
"Shibo! Let me have the grid."

Her quick response sent a crosshatched picture into his left
eye. Three winking red dots trailed Argo, swelling visibly.

Killeen went back to normal sight. He had chosen to meet
their fate while out here, where he could see and judge with his
own eyes. Electronic helpers were all very fine, but some sense of
human dignity demanded that he use his own capabilities now. A
Cap'n should judge from his own experience.

And being outside might be safer if things went badly. He had
officers posted at each lock to evacuate crew in pressure suits if
Argo's hull split. How they could survive for long without a
functioning ship Killeen could not imagine, but at least such
preparations gave them all something to do before the battle.
Anything was better for the crew than agonized waiting.

Which was, he reminded himself, just what he was doing. He


	TIDES OF LIGHT
	353


stopped fretting and walked along the gently curving hull. Argo
was headed out from the waning sun. Its lessened light made the
ivory washes of molecular clouds seem nearby. They bore now

toward the seething disk of the Eater itself.
--They're coming fast,-- Shibo sent.
"Quath?"

We are acting.

Killeen held his breath. Suddenly the leading missile veered

to the side. It wobbled and then streaked away.

We have deceived the first.

As Quath spoke, the missile burst silently into a crimson ball.
"Shibo?"

--Our shields are stopping the UV pulses.--

"Good."

But those were trivial threats. The main purpose of the missiles
was simple: to crack Argo's hull.

The two remaining missiles had swollen to red disks in Shibo's
grid.

We are tumbling the second.

One of the disks bobbed randomly. Killeen watched it explode

into another soundless crimson globe.

We attempt the third.

"Are there others behind these?"

Not yet.

Then there was still a chance.

We are... difficulty... difficulty...

For the first time Quath's tone was streaked with warring
impressions. Killeen had the sensation of watching multiple minds
clamor and struggle to a single purpose. Before he could compre-

hend this he felt a heavy, drumroll urgency.

We... fail.

Death grew behind them. Killeen could see the sleek form
now.

"Quath! Isn't there--"

No. It resists my deceptions.

Killeen stared at the rapidly growing dot. In the sharp clarity
of vacuum he felt as though he could almost reach out and slap it
away. Or throw something at it. In space even insubstantial things
could--

The idea was so simple it startled him.
"Jocelyn! Cermo!"
--Yeasay!--


354
	Gregory Benford
	TIDES OF LIGHT
	355

"Release! Open the locks!"

--Yessir[-- they answered together.

Clouds spurted from three openings in Argo's hull. On signal
the maintenance locks had popped open in the polluted zone of the
ship. Now the air rushed out, carrying foul fluids with it. Anything
left within quickly boiled away into hard vacuum.

Sunlight caught the expanding clouds. Suddenly they became
huge, spreading foils. Billowing yellow wings seemed to twist and
fan, as though Argo glided forward by beating against utter vacuum.
Expanding gossamer veils trailed behind as the ship steadily
accelerated away.

Killeen stood uphull from the locks and so was spared the
spray. For long moments the fluids burst into sunlight. Gusts

came forth. Each added more radiance to the fluttering wake.
"Shibo! Side vector!"

Argo lurched. Shibo had fired the jets on one side. The ship
coasted sidewise.

Now Killeen could not see the approaching enemy. The luminous
fog obscured everything. He hoped that the missile saw the

same wreathed confusion.

"Quath?"

Approaching hard. Accelerating.

"Fire main engine!"

To stay on the hull Killeen had to catch himself against a pipe.
Argo accelerated strongly.

Glory burst behind them. The plasma drive struck the wake
cloud. The agitated ions immediately provoked answering radiation
from the gas. Like a searchlight playing through clotted fog,
the exhaust brilliantly lit a huge irregular blob of mist.

Killeen held on against the rising thrust. He had done all he
could. Now--

A fireball flared nearby. It lit the billowing fog further, casting

shock waves of luminescence.

"Missed!" he cried.

--Hot damn!-- Cermo shouted.

Shibo laughed. Her tinkling voice rang in his ears.

--Let 'em eat shit!-- Cermo yelled.

"And so they have," Killeen said grimly. "Shibo?"

--No damage reports.--

"It went off where it thought we were. Couldn't find its way
through all our crap."


Laughter pealed through the comm. Killeen could not help

himself; he joined in.

"Quath?"

We detect no further missiles. Perhaps this deception of yours
has worked. The radiant cloud is emitting signature frequencies
typical of heated organic compounds.

"No surprise," Killeen said. "That's what it is."

However, the pursuing vessel will interpret such emissions as

evidence of a ruptured hull. A clever ruse.
"Think they'll break off followin' us?"
It seems so.

"You sure these are the last enemy Cybers?"

We have been assured by the Tukar'ramin. Our victory is now
complete. The rightful Illuminates now prevail.

"Damn glad to hear it." Killeen was still rankled to think that
his Family had gone through so much because of a factional
dispute among distant beings he would never know.

He let the spike of irritation pass. It was irrational to harbor
resentments against beings whose motivations and meanings were
so alien. He thought he caught glimpses of Quath, but he was sure
the deeper essence eluded him. Who could have guessed, for
example, that the Legacies aboard Argo would mean something to
a Cyber--when simple spoken sentences often did not? The
Illuminates had commanded that they be ferried up from New
Bishop and returned to Argo. That had been done just as Argo
cast off from the station. Cyber craft had tried to destroy the
Flitter carrying the Legacies and the Illuminates had expended

ship after ship defending it.

Why?

Killeen shook his head.

Standing beneath the roiling sky of incandescent majesty soothed
his spirits. He walked the hull as their radiant wake dispersed. A
few more moments out here would settle him and make the
coming tasks of Cap'ncy easier.

Raucous laughter streamed through the comm. Let them celebrate.
The Family needed some release. And they would still have
to watch the pursuing craft carefully.

He allowed himself a grin. Maybe, just maybe, they were
going to escape.

To what? He looked ahead at the yawning bluehot majesty of
the disk that surrounded the Eater. It was a long voyage away.
They would have to prepare for whatever lurked there.


356
	Gregory Benford
	TIDES OF LIGHT
	357

The Family . . . So much had changed since Fanny had led a
scrap of Bishops away from Abraham's wrecked Citadel, into
Snowglade's bleakness. That remnant had joined with dregs of
Knights and Rooks. They had slipped free of their world and had
seen it as a speck in an ocean of night.

Now, here, the Family had been seared again ... only to
cleave anew with new members who brought their own scarred
heritage. A new whole. A greater sum, perhaps.

He turned and walked back along the hull, boots thumping
down on magnetic anchors. The slowly expanding cloud thinned
and let in a little light. He could just make out the small golden
circle that lay far behind. It was more distant than the enemy, but
Quath said it was accelerating strongly. It would catch up with
Argo soon.

Killeen tried to imagine what vessels could transport the enormous
mass of the cosmic string. Well, he would see. All in good
time.

That great scythe would follow them toward the Eater, Quath
said. So the Illuminates had decreed. They had stopped the
gutting of a world to send the ring along with Argo. Halted the
building of their gray warrens. Interrupted the labors of millions of
Cybers. For what, no one yet knew.

And after? There was still the enigma of the electromagnetic
being. Somewhere ahead it lurked, tied to the disk of the Eater.

His brushing contact with that mind, back on New Bishop, had
implied much while explaining nothing. It had spoken of his
father. Maybe Killeen had tempted fate by naming the star that
waned behind them for Abraham. But perhaps Abraham was a key
to all this. Yet how could his father, lost at the fall of the Citadel,
figure in the deliberations of a tenuous magnetic mind? Could
such a being revive those long dead?

His Grey Aspect droned for attention. Her voice came slowly,
as though working across the abyss of time that separated Killeen
from the High Arcology Era.


There were records ... I once saw ... incomplete ...
from a time long gone ... Some said ... before the
Chandeliers... before even the First Comers... from...
a culture of legendary origin . . . called Earth. That too was
a time ... when men lived... beneath the will... of
beings vaster. Gods moved the heavens... determined...
fate of men... and beasts... In those times... humanity
scratched out its destiny ... in soil ... under tortured
skies . .. where huge things . .. in comfort ... dwelled.
Some thought these superior beings ... were gods. Yet
men lived lives of meaning still . .. despite their small
stature . . . in the scheme of things. So do not despair...
Humanity has found zest and verve . . . before . . . in the
shadows of vastness... in a place called Greece.


Killeen nodded. So even this was not new. Humanity's most
heartfelt joys and crushing defeats had been mere sideshows,
small dramas acted out at the feet of greater entities.

It did not matter whether one termed these forces gods or the
products of further evolution. Enormity defied definitions. Skysower
was a living thing, but Killeen could not tell whether it even
thought. Perhaps the distinction itself did not make sense at that
level of grandeur.

He looked up into the colossal sky. Fingers of knotted fire
worked in molecular clouds. Storms frayed against the stars. Tides
of light ebbed and flowed with ponderous majesty. Amid it all,
Argo sailed on, a mote.

"Shibo," he whispered. "I love you."

It seemed as though the words were new, and that he said
them for the first time.


Chronology of Human Species
(Dreaming Vertebrates)
at Galactic Center


This summary was prepared at your request, in order to make
intelligible the human point of view. I must confess that this is
fundamentally impossible even to anthology-class minds such as
myself, and probably to any entity which does not arise from an
initial organic base. However, as much as is possible I shall take
the eraroped human version of their own history, however distorted
or inadequate this may be.

These matters were of no concern to us until the strange
events at the collapse of Citadel Bishop (see appendix 1). Some
effort to understand that engagement led to my involvement with
the humans who escaped our extermination.

I have made use of these survivors. They recently departed on
an aged vessel of earlier human construction. They will arrive at
World #1936B. The destructive intercity competition there may
be muted by their efforts. I have arranged that they be met by our
representatives, assuming the situation there has not deteriorated
further by the time of their arrival.

However, as discussed in appendix 2, other purposes are served
by their leaving Snowglade and going to World #1936B at this time.
While these humans know nothing of the larger context, they may
have methods of yielding further information of use to us. In light
of our ignorance of these beings, higher entities have decided to
allow their continued survival so long as they pose no serious irritant.


[Note: This entry is abstracted from larger files. Times refer to
fiat space-time measurements, though some important events
have occurred in the curved geometries of pulsar magnetospheres
and the black hole vicinity. Notes on one particular human refuge,
planet Snowglade, are included.]


Existing manuscripts and datalogs allow some preliminary description
of events leading up to the current epoch. The historical


358


	TIDES OF LIGHT
	359


scheme of humanity falls into periods which reflect stages in the
steady decline of humans at Galactic Center. Human terms are
used throughout, even where they are misleading or inadequate.


THE GREAT TIMES


This is a dimly remembered age spanning several thousand years.
Humans moved freely between the close-packed stars of the Center.
Even then they had to stay out of the way of mech civilization.

Human legend holds that they arrived at Galactic Center in

several waves.

First was a small band which had captured a mech near-light
starship. Apparently they went undetected for a while because of
their conventional craft. This allowed stealthy investigation of
mech ways and purposes. By observing mech civilization and
learning from it, humans attained a level of ability rare among
organic forms. They apparently also formed alliances with other
organic forms nearby, though nothing is known of these.

The development of large pulsar configurations had begun
shortly before this time and occupied much mech energy. Creation
of large electron-positron clouds contributed to the already
considerable gamma-ray background near pulsars. These gamma
rays heated molecular clouds and prevented human incursions
into several regions. The few remaining records suggest that the
first human expedition set about several pursuits involving organic
civilizations which lived near the Center. However, these humans
then vanished.

The second wave of exploration came directly from Earth. An
entire fleet of ramscoop vessels was launched within a century
after the mech-sponsored warfare, which had introduced alien sea
life into Earth's oceans.

Third came a larger expedition which sought the fabled Galactic
Library which beacons had promised. Earth lies 8.63 kilopar-secs
from Galactic Center (see appendix 3 for Universal Standard
comparisons). This implies that the ramscoop vessels had begun
their voyage in an age when the Library was still announcing
itself. Well before their arrival the Library had disappeared, spirited
away by unknown parties. Efforts to find it failed. The Library
apparently contained the records of many extinct organic
races. Searches for it tapered off when mechs finally took notice of
these intruders and set about opposing them.


	360
	Gregory Benford


THE CHANDELIER AGE


Here humans gathered into large cities in space for protection.
Surviving logs from starfaring vessels show that mechs had begun
to make interstellar travel dangerous. Also, radiation increased
in the zone around the black hole at Absolute Center (sometimes
"True Center"). This made conditions harder for organic forms
everywhere nearby.

Scholars of this time studied the earliest humans known at
Galactic Center and much of our knowledge of earlier ages descends
from the detailed searches made then. Much art and
literature survives from the centuries marking the transition into
the Chandeliers, though most of this is abstract and useless for
historical purposes.


HIGH ARCOLOGY ERA


This came after the "Hunker Down" (slang)the exodus from the
Chandeliers to planetary surfaces. Mech competition drove this
desperate retreat. On most worlds, in the need for security humankind
was forced into huge Arcologies, single-building cities
which were still technically advanced and retained many facets of
Chandelier life.

Planet Snowglade was a particularly fertile site and received
extensive colonizing. Assignment of territories was made by Family
structure, as elsewhere. The trauma of the "Hunker Down"
drove religious fervor. This is best considered as a form of human
art (appendix 4), though much must be interpolated here to render
this mode of expression into rational terms.


LATE ARCOLOGY ERA


The last small Chandeliers and freighting ships were abandoned at
the opening of this time. All starflight ceased. Even interplanetary
travel and harvesting of resources became difficult because of the
mechs. Moist, plant-bearing planets were previously thought to
be uninteresting to the mechs. Even these now came under
threat. Since such worlds were where the Arcologies flourished
best, humanity was further circumscribed.


	TIDES OF LIGHT
	361


HIGH CITADEL AGE


The Arcologies became untenable under further mech pressure.
Breakup of the mountain-sized Arcologies followed, primarily because
of difficulties in maintaining the high techcraft. Many retreated
into the less conspicuous Citadels.

Mech depredations were steady, but most damage was done
by side effects of the expanding mech cities, which consumed
resources and altered the biosphere. Many Arcologies were mined
for materials and ores. Citadels the size of small towns survived.
Mechs began to spread over most of Snowglade at this time,
spurring climate-changing processes.

Many human-carried Aspects date from this time, apparently
because the breakdown of the human infrastructure threatened
the human database held in fixed computing sites. New skills
arose as humanity began to supplement its dwindling agriculture
with hunter-gatherer techniques and especially raids on mech
storehouses. Humans began to lose their own technology and
concentrated on reworking mechtech. No longer potential rivals,
they became pests scratching at the edges.


THE CALAMITY (ON SNOWGLADE)


This opened the final chapter in the conquest of Snowglade.
Though Family Citadels had been tolerated for some time, and
humans had been used occasionally as pawns in mech intercity
rivalry, their usefulness was marginal. Each Citadel was attacked
in turn as mech resources allowed. Each Citadel of the human
Families fell separately, banishing their survivors to the raw
countryside.

It had become apparent by this time that Snowglade's star,
Denix, was following an orbit designed to bring it close to the
black hole region. Mech activities had brought this about through
electrodynamic coupling to molecular clouds, using a magnetic
grappling effect to convey momentum. This means that Snowglade
will inevitably become uninhabitable by organic lifeforms. This
orbit change appears to be unknown to humans. Generally their
scholarly speculation concentrates upon the large scale activity at
True Center.

Some humans still survive on Snowglade. The complex events


	362
	Gregory Benford


surrounding the Calamity at Citadel Bishop suggest that some
humans should be kept intact in case they are somehow important
to the events of that day. It is apparent that none of the principals,
mech or human, understands more than a fraction of the continuing
puzzle.


This report is most respectfully submitted. Appendices to follow.