6
He felt warm and rather relaxed, suddenly. Almost like he’d inserted a buzz-chip (which he had not). Weird… but the sensation made communicating with those anxious small aliens easier. Both Block-Worlders and Long Sparians were confused and concerned, not just because he’d shown up, either. Because darkness was falling, and stars disappearing, because legends were coming to pass.
Right. They were concerned about the future. He just wanted to find a way back to the astronomically distant Two Hundred Worlds (along with that stolen orb). In the meantime, there was mostly useless first-contact protocol and communications to work on.
V47 Pilot left the cockpit entirely to meet with the Block-Worlders. No special reason why they came first. Just, they were physically nearer. The Titan would have caused catastrophic damage landing there, so Pilot emerged, asked its denizens to clear a space for him, then touched down on a surface both completely artificial and teeming with miniature life. He ended up sitting cross-legged, to minimize harm to those ankle-high buildings and trees.
Funny, that the first actual tree he ever encountered was a fractal, crystalline, palm-high silica plant starving for light, not the woody green pillars he’d seen in “The Battle for Arda”. Anyhow, the Block-Worlders communicated through tumbling and changing their shape. They were only a finger-joint tall, and their conformation changes were an allover phenomenon. If you could not see a speaker’s back or its underside, you’d miss the nuances and most of the humor (always writhed from behind).
V47 Pilot could mimic their “speech” with his hands… sort of signing… but he had to produce a sensory field in order to fully “hear” them. And, yes, they were terribly worried.
“The stars fall away and darkness approaches. Now you have appeared, Forward Great Construct Pilot. What do these things mean? Are we doomed, as some have foretold?”
Tough question, but that warm, peaceful “drunken” sensation put it all in perspective, somehow. V47 Pilot launched his three drones for a better scan of their cuboid and spaceship-sized world. As the drones sped away, he keyed up the spotlights (for… y’know… those poor, starving trees). He’d retracted his helmet’s faceplate, as the atmosphere was within adaptation parameters. Chilly, but breathable. Now he said/ signed,
“Everything comes to its end sooner or later, but yours is not yet, I think. The sky grows dark because you have reached a great void in space. The masters have drawn you here by their flight. As for doom… This,” Pilot gestured broadly around at Block-World and that cloud of distant, tumbling shapes. “…is a disassembled weap… transport device. If put back together and used as intended, its construction would surely destroy any inhabitants.”
A ripple of shock and distress flared through those tiny, mutable creatures. Looked like “the wave” performed at a very small cyber-ball stadium.
“The legends!” they pulsed/ altered. “The legends are true!”
Right. No, not exactly. So…
“Wait! I said if,” he signed blurrily back. “I’m here, but I need to be elsewhere, fast. Whatever you folk decide to do about that… I’ll accept. I have a proposal, though.”
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Right Left Top Flip, their spokes unit, drew nearer. With a crackling spatter of flashes and tinkles, Right Left Top Flip rolled over a crystalline bridge to perch on the Pilot’s folded left knee.
“Alter your surface, Forward Great Construct Pilot. Reveal how we may survive the coming of terror.”
The fact that Pilot only changed the shape of his hands, and the cut of his plated exterior gave him a definite accent, but the Block-Worlders were motivated. They concentrated, making a real effort to fathom his clumsy, slurred shapes. Those who’d grown fluent translated for the rest as V47 Pilot said,
“Right… My proposal. If we take the uninhabited parts of this asteroid swarm and use them to build an industrial transport gate…”
They rippled a question like something tagged “wheat” in his memory files, so Pilot provided a visual. He projected a holographic diagram for them, through his own optics. The glowing blueprint contained raised dot-code labels, and it was large enough for them to roll through and manipulate. (Which felt like skittery bubbles, to him.)
“This is a transport gate. I can set it for… oh… TTN-iA’s shell… Bring you lot through with me, as well… If you want to get out of this void and away from the masters. Plenty of room for a stable orbit around the magnetar. Plenty of light, too.”
V47 Pilot had to explain all this to the Long Sparians, next. Curious creatures (and the swarm’s first spacefarers) they communicated through flashes of colored light between three psi-linked units. Always a triad, sometimes a crippled pair, never alone. They were terribly distressed for V47 Pilot, until he launched all three of his drones for them. That changed everything, as being part of a foursome made him almost a god in their compound, stalked eyes.
“If we ascend as you have described, Silver White Quadrangle Pilot, will we find welcome and plenty?”
Resources were very limited on a tumbling 10,000-mile strut. Here, too, the local plants were dying, their atmosphere frittering off. Just like Block-World, Long Spar was facing a long, icy night. They were nearing the end.
“TTN-iA is a good person,” Pilot flashed through his drones and his chest light. “She has been lonely… a single… for many long ages. I believe that she would welcome your company… and there is abundant light for your crops.”
Flashes erupted throughout Long Spar, as his words were transmitted to those far away. It looked like a lightning-shot cloud in deep space. He’d already projected his transport-gate diagram for them. Streaming from his grey eyes, the holographic image had feedback. Their “touch” and manipulation of it increased his mild semi-drunkenness. Also, it tickled.
“No one should be alone,” said/ flashed the chief spokes-trio, Red Blue Gamma. “A single dies of such empty solitude! We are needed, then, Silver White Quadrangle Pilot?”
He nodded, which meant nothing at all to those ooze-crystal Long Sparians. Flashed blue, which did.
“Yes. By me, absolutely. Your help is very much needed. If I have to cross space at multi-light, even with folding, I will not reach home in less than 12,300 years. I need to build an industrial transport gate… But I won’t do it without your permission, Red Blue Gamma. I am… entirely in your manipulators.”
“You come from the sky bringing hope, Silver White Quadrangle Pilot. You offer to take us away from darkness and death. What can we do but accept?”
“You can tell me to chip off,” said V47 Pilot, with a humorous sparkle of warm amber light. “You can use this diagram, build your own shigraz gate and then go wherever you want, on the chart of worlds. I make no demands, Red Blue Gamma.”
Much laughter flashed back from the gathered trios. From foot-high spires and lacy bridges.
“Our legends tell of a great messenger,” glittered the spokes-triad. “But the tales did not indicate that the bearer of light would be so… relaxed.”
V47 Pilot smiled. He had the oddest impulse to embrace Red Blue Gamma and all the rest of those tiny, brave puddings. To draw a protective cloak over their shimmering cities and long, curving world. Settled for matching the meter and frequency of his flashes to theirs, meaning accord. Agreement. Treaty.
And so, the great asteroid gate… son of a terrible weapon… was designed and built. Took just under 5.72 local days and every last chunk of those uninhabited pieces. Drew copious manna… but worked. By all the writers of code, it functioned.