The Cap’n was in the same flyer. Since they had talked, his father seemed to want to have Toby nearby whenever possible. Cermo piloted, since this was the Command flyer. It was not lost to Toby that assigning him here effectively put him on ice, kept him from “stirring around,” as Cermo had described his excursion with Quath. On the other hand, this flyer would be in on the most interesting discoveries.
The ramparts and great flanks of the Chandelier began to betray their age as the Family flyers coasted nearer. The massive sheets that seemed to have a ceramic hardness now showed pits, black scars, big rimmed craters. About Galactic Center a hail of incoming debris constantly circled. Even tiny flakes, zooming in at several hundred kilometers per second, could dig deep holes.
Toby watched the peppered face gain detail as they came nearer. He had the same problem, blotches that robbed dignity, but supposedly his would clear up in time. A teenage problem. It was as though age brought a cosmic acne here, he mused, that would never go away. But did that mean no one lived here now?
They were close. He could sense an edgy impatience on the comm line. The crew sent their all-clears in clipped tones. Nobody detected the slightest signal coming from the Chandelier itself.
He used his blocked-in Shibo Personality to help integrate the calls. It was pleasant, having a kind of interior servant who could listen to one transmission while Toby paid attention to another.
Quath could do that, all by herself, Toby knew. The alien’s mind was organized differently, so that it processed incoming information in parallel. Quath said that she had “subminds.” They did their assigned jobs, kind of the way Toby could gnaw an apple and read a book at the same time. But Quath’s subminds stored it all and could feed it back.
So Quath would have been perfect for this job—only she wouldn’t come along. <I cannot witness so close-stitched a homecoming,> the big alien had sent.
Killeen had explained that this Chandelier was not in any sense Family Bishop’s home, since it was incredibly ancient. Still Quath wouldn’t budge. She sent something about “intimate observances” and would say no more.
Toby’s Shibo Personality emerged, a tickling presence.
All flyers are in optimal position, the 3D scan shows. No unexplained electromagnetic emissions. The Chandelier appears dead.
Toby was used to Shibo giving him straight, impersonal stuff. She had been a good friend while alive, but her Personality was reserved. She had not mentioned his conversation with Killeen, either. He said to her in his mind, “Say, do you think this is a good idea?”
Not particularly. Mechs probably expect such a magnificent site to be visited now and then. And mechs plan far ahead.
“What would you do?”
Send in one person. Less risk.
“Ummm, sounds reasonable. Not our style, though.”
Family Bishop has always been impetuous. Perhaps that is why you have survived.
Toby remembered that Shibo had come to them from Family Knight, after that Family had been nearly killed off by the mechs. She had been born into Family Pawn. “Well, I’ve always wanted to see a Chandelier. I s’pose we all do.”
Mechs know that, too. But I suspect your father has motives beyond curiosity.
“Such as?”
Only a guess. We shall see.
This calm, mysterious distance was typical Shibo. Most Aspects were eager to speak, to be involved again in real-world hustle and bustle. Shibo had a serenity not shared by Isaac and the others. Maybe that was an attribute of Personalities in general, but Toby suspected it was just a deep feature of the remarkable woman she had been. Though his true mother was still a firm, resonant memory, Shibo had been a mother to him in the long years of Family wanderings.
Toby shrugged and reported that the flyers were positioned, swarming like bees around an elephant.
Killeen nodded curtly and ordered,—Teams in!—
Flyers all around the Chandelier angled in. There was no visible movement in response.
The flyers slipped into open entrances. Toby sorted out the transmissions and brought the most important to Killeen’s attention. There was continual cross talk. Bishops were a gabby lot:
—Looks like a big open auditorium here. Some burn damage.—Yeah, must’ve been fighting all along this passage. Big gouges out of the walls.—
—A whole section smashed in here.—
—All in vacuum. No air pressure.—
—Burned-out living quarters. From the door heights I’d say they were short people.—
—No signs of recent use, I’d say.—
—Right. I just ran a sample on some burned furniture in an apartment. My Aspect says that the isotope dating makes this to be old—twenty thousand years, at least.—
—Anybody find any records?—
—No. Somebody sure scraped this place clean.—
—I’m picking up traces of electrical activity. Something still works here.—
Killeen broke in curtly.—Proceed carefully. There may be mechs in there.—
Toby didn’t think it likely that mechs would stay in a human artifact, even a glorious ruin like this. But then, he had less experience than his father and the other Bishop veterans. He knew the long history of betrayals, of agreements broken, of ambushes and raids and casual obliteration as just that—history. These men and women had lived through plenty of it; some were over a hundred years old and still fighting, still vigorous and adamant about giving any margin to mechs.
—God, they fought all through here.—
—Yeah, smashed. Stripped clean.—
—Somebody pulled out all the metals. Looks like mech scavenging. Same typical grappler marks.—
—A graveyard of a city.—
