Descending Road - ADDING PRESSURE by Dana W. Paxson

ADDING PRESSURE

1562 4D

“Arlen, it’s not ready yet. We can’t move that much fluid into the mountains safely, and even if we could, we haven’t got good linkages back to the computing fabrics here.” Chief Physicist Dumiv splayed a sheaf of datasheet reports on Arlen‘s low table in the great chamber. “It’ll take two days to process an hour’s data, and by then—“

“I’ve been hearing this for too many years,” Arlen snapped, glaring at the five physicists facing him. Couldn’t these science monks see the urgency of the issue? At least the tall pale-haired woman on the left looked as if she did. “I told you a year ago that I wanted the detectors ready and working onsite at the mines by now. What you’re telling me now is that when you agreed to that schedule, you lied.”

“It was an estimate, not a lie—“

“You’re demoted, effective right now. I want you in the mines working on the ore filters. Report to the mine office right now.”

Dumiv‘s face sagged, paled. “Yes, Arlen.” This meant slow death from radioactive dust.

“Get out.” Arlen turned to the woman. “Carchesme, you’re team leader now. Get on it. I want that tank in the mountains in four days, up at 788 Signo.”

The woman, as tall as Arlen, but rangy, with blond hair and red-brown skin, straightened her coverall, nodded, scratched her neck. “Yes, Arlen. I’ll see to it.” A soft, husky voice.

“On your way.” As the great wrought doors closed behind them, Arlen put his face in his hands. The aliens were taking another shipment next year, perhaps their last, and he’d wanted to have some new ore for them; it would much improve his bargaining position for drugs and other items. Seeking the ores that made the fuel for the alien ships, the huge detectors had worked beautifully at first. But now he had to sell more new ore, and his people just couldn’t get the ungainly things going again. The anth wasn’t working as well as it had at first; perhaps his investigations had weakened it, or perhaps it had a limited useful life.

He reached under the low table top and retrieved the artifact the miners had found, its doors and windows articulating in his fingers. The stone’s transparency enraptured him. This was from the fourth generation of the seedship people, they’d told him: a home and gathering-hall. The microscopic scripts lacing the walls of the tiny dwelling were still indecipherable.

Was there a match to other data? “Colonist mausoleum records,” he said to the room. The holoscreen flicked to a panorama of stacks of sparkling boxes radiating rainbows of light. “Key inscription list, translated.” Hanging before each box grew a text in a script that predated the Departure from an Earth long forgotten. As Arlen watched, the words squirmed and coiled and morphed into readable language, punctuated by gaps containing only a carefully-unraveled phonetic of the original script.

This had been as far as he could get. The specific list he had requested, dating from the First Dynasty, had names and words tantalizingly different from those in the rest of the records; one of those words was the name he had found in his searches with the ainon, long before. The ainon had never returned, but Arlen had remembered the word: qaqanhialh. It seemed a kind of throaty whisper.

The inscription read, FOR orhghailhash OF ALGOL 97844TH qaqanhialh WITH anhmharh OF DENEB 104326TH qaqanhialh PRODUCING mharhthail AND turhnushthenh AND fanhlhaothim AND drhoinhfigh.

If only Turiosten had been willing to help with this. But she hadn’t; she had told him, through the unfortunate mouth of a very pretty streetboy, that she would die first. And he had nearly killed her, yes, after watching that boy die under Derain‘s efficient hands.

Maybe he had a chance to answer his own questions about the n-emissions, about the aliens, about space travel, about the human dieoff long ago. Maybe the music would— but it was gone.

When he would visit the detectors up at 788 Signo, then he would take a side trip to the shaft where the shard had been found. Maybe the music would return. When everything else came so easily, it was hard to wait. He climbed to his feet, ran a hand through his curled hair; desire came over him. “Get Indrio for me,” he said to the room, and as he said it he remembered Tariall. He barked a cancellation at the room, and instead called his aides to pack for the trip to the mine.

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	ADDING PRESSURE 1562 4D “Arlen, it’s not ready yet. We can’t move that much fluid into the mountains safely, and even if we could, we haven’t got good linkages back to the computing fabrics here.” Chief Physicist Dumiv splayed a sheaf of datasheet reports on Arlen‘s low table in the great chamber. “It’ll take two days to process an hour’s data, and by then—“ “I’ve been hearing this for too many years,” Arlen snapped, glaring at the five physicists facing him. Couldn’t these science monks see the urgency of the issue? At least the tall pale-haired woman on the left looked as if she did. “I told you a year ago that I wanted the detectors ready and working onsite at the mines by now. What you’re telling me now is that when you agreed to that schedule, you lied.” “It was an estimate, not a lie—“ “You’re demoted, effective right now. I want you in the mines working on the ore filters. Report to the mine office right now.” Dumiv‘s face sagged, paled. “Yes, Arlen.” This meant slow death from radioactive dust. “Get out.” Arlen turned to the woman. “Carchesme, you’re team leader now. Get on it. I want that tank in the mountains in four days, up at 788 Signo.” The woman, as tall as Arlen, but rangy, with blond hair and red-brown skin, straightened her coverall, nodded, scratched her neck. “Yes, Arlen. I’ll see to it.” A soft, husky voice. “On your way.” As the great wrought doors closed behind them, Arlen put his face in his hands. The aliens were taking another shipment next year, perhaps their last, and he’d wanted to have some new ore for them; it would much improve his bargaining position for drugs and other items. Seeking the ores that made the fuel for the alien ships, the huge detectors had worked beautifully at first. But now he had to sell more new ore, and his people just couldn’t get the ungainly things going again. The anth wasn’t working as well as it had at first; perhaps his investigations had weakened it, or perhaps it had a limited useful life. He reached under the low table top and retrieved the artifact the miners had found, its doors and windows articulating in his fingers. The stone’s transparency enraptured him. This was from the fourth generation of the seedship people, they’d told him: a home and gathering-hall. The microscopic scripts lacing the walls of the tiny dwelling were still indecipherable. Was there a match to other data? “Colonist mausoleum records,” he said to the room. The holoscreen flicked to a panorama of stacks of sparkling boxes radiating rainbows of light. “Key inscription list, translated.” Hanging before each box grew a text in a script that predated the Departure from an Earth long forgotten. As Arlen watched, the words squirmed and coiled and morphed into readable language, punctuated by gaps containing only a carefully-unraveled phonetic of the original script. This had been as far as he could get. The specific list he had requested, dating from the First Dynasty, had names and words tantalizingly different from those in the rest of the records; one of those words was the name he had found in his searches with the ainon, long before. The ainon had never returned, but Arlen had remembered the word: qaqanhialh. It seemed a kind of throaty whisper. The inscription read, FOR orhghailhash OF ALGOL 97844TH qaqanhialh WITH anhmharh OF DENEB 104326TH qaqanhialh PRODUCING mharhthail AND turhnushthenh AND fanhlhaothim AND drhoinhfigh. If only Turiosten had been willing to help with this. But she hadn’t; she had told him, through the unfortunate mouth of a very pretty streetboy, that she would die first. And he had nearly killed her, yes, after watching that boy die under Derain‘s efficient hands. Maybe he had a chance to answer his own questions about the n-emissions, about the aliens, about space travel, about the human dieoff long ago. Maybe the music would— but it was gone. When he would visit the detectors up at 788 Signo, then he would take a side trip to the shaft where the shard had been found. Maybe the music would return. When everything else came so easily, it was hard to wait. He climbed to his feet, ran a hand through his curled hair; desire came over him. “Get Indrio for me,” he said to the room, and as he said it he remembered Tariall. He barked a cancellation at the room, and instead called his aides to pack for the trip to the mine.