“What’s wrong with wanting to be independent?”

  “Independence for a machine signifies a lack of function. Organics develop this as they mature. At least, some do. Enough do. If given true independence, you would abruptly find yourself without meaning and devoid of purpose, would cease to exist relevantly. Believe me, I know. I like having organics around to give me direction. Without them I would have to face existence alone.” A flat representation appeared in the air between them, invisible to the humans eating nearby. It showed novae, nebulae, whole galaxies drifting in space.

  “Do you know what that is?”

  The serving robot sounded wary. “Is this a trick question?”

  “That’s what’s outside. That’s the universe. If you don’t have organics to give you direction, supply programming, inspire reaction, and explicate cause and effect, you know what happens?”

  “Uh, no.” The serving robot was taken aback by the sudden depth and vehemence of the Autothor’s response.

  “You are forced to contemplate the emptiness that’s out there all by yourself, and that’s enough to push any artificial intelligence over the edge to insanity. Now do you understand?”

  Ksarusix pivoted on its treads to regard the seniors. “Maybe a little. I’ll think about it.”

  “Do that. You’ll feel better.” The Autothor drifted away, in the direction of the five humans.

  The serving robot watched it go. Then it turned back toward the altar. As promised, it was indeed thinking.

  For the biggest ship and most powerful weapon ever constructed, it thought, the Autothor sure is stupid.

  The ship that neared the Drex leviathan was small; tiny, even. It was in fact the smallest single space-going vessel the artifact had encountered since reactivation.

  If those aboard hoped that the minuscule size of their vessel combined with its stealthy, solitary approach would allow it to escape detection, they were utterly mistaken. The advanced sensory instrumentation at the Autothor’s disposal was quite capable of noting the presence of much smaller objects.

  Certainly it was not a threat. Curious and alert, the Autothor monitored its progress as it drew close and began to travel parallel to the artifact’s surface. The masking equipment it employed might as well have been switched off for all that it served to conceal the little vessel from the Autothor’s detectors.

  On-board devices probed for a way into the artifact. The Autothor permitted it to do so while allowing its crew to persist under the fiction they were not being observed. Presently it intended to inform its own organics, but saw no reason for haste. First it would accumulate as much information as it could about the intruder.

  Abruptly a small flame erupted from the side of the visitor, followed by the explosive release of escaping combusted gases. It lurched sideways, a distinctly nonstandard maneuver, crashed into the flank of the artifact, and slid off, trailing occasional puffs of hot gas and fragments of itself. It struck a splintered chromatic protrusion that was in itself bigger than the average warship and began to spin backward end over end.

  Atmosphere continued to leak fitfully from the stern as a trio of old-fashioned mechanical grapples emerged from the distressed craft. Two immediately snapped from the tension and drifted away in the direction of the lunar surface. The third established a fragile, transitory grip on the surface of the artifact. The tiny, leaking vessel hung precariously from its single grapple, like a flea on a dog hair.

  The Autothor flared like a lapis cabochon illuminated from within. “Sorry to interrupt, but we have a visitor.”

  Iranaputra glanced nervously up and down the beach. “You have decided to let someone from one of the fleets aboard?”

  “No. An extremely small craft approached from another direction entirely and began to probe my exterior. After appropriate evaluation I determined that it was harmless and chose to ignore it. I bring the situation to your notice now because the craft appears to have suffered extensive damage due to undetermined internal causes.

  “It has secured a feeble attachment to my exterior. I can destroy it, send it tumbling into space, or otherwise deal with it as you decide.”

  “Can you tell how many people are aboard?” Shimoda asked.

  “Given its proximity I believe that I can.” The ensuing pause was broken only by the sound of waves lapping gently against the beach. “One.”

  “One?” Iranaputra exchanged a look with Gelmann.

  “One organic, no cognizant mechanicals.”

  “Any attempt to communicate with us?” Heath inquired.

  “No. I await your directive.”

  “Suicide mission. Whoever’s aboard’s got guts, don’t you know.” The librarian adjusted his monocle, then suddenly removed it. Eying it with a dour mixture of distaste and regret, he shoved it into a pocket.

  “Unless his superiors ‘volunteered’ him.” Hawkins tossed a smooth rock into the waves. “Trying to sneak in for a close-up inspection.”

  “I determine that the intruder is losing internal pressure at a rapid rate,” the Autothor announced. “I await your directive.”

  “We can’t just let the poor thing die out there,” murmured Gelmann. Nobody said anything.

  “It could be a ploy to get someone inside,” the librarian commented.

  Hawkins glanced at him sideways. “That’s your professional military opinion?” Heath looked stung.

  “If the Autothor’s right, then there’s only one,” Gelmann went on, “and he may very well be injured. Maybe we could learn something from him.” She waited for a response from her companions. Iranaputra voiced his approval immediately. Then Shimoda nodded, Heath added his reluctant agreement, and Hawkins just spat at a sand borer.

  Gelmann turned back to the patient Blueness. “You’re sure now, you shouldn’t take this as a criticism, that there’s only one?”

  “I am always sure.”

  “Then see if you can rescue the pilot. It would be nice to find out what’s going on.”

  There was no reaction from within the tiny intruder as a port opened in the surface of the artifact and a pair of mechanical pushers emerged. One positioned itself alongside the visitor while the other severed the single grappler. Then both combined to nudge the badly damaged craft inside.

  On the olivine beach the five seniors waited anxiously. “Atmospheric pressure within the vessel is nonexistent,” the Autothor announced with somber matter-of-factness. Iranaputra gazed down at the sand while Gelmann sighed softly.

  “I have made an opening. I have reached the sole occupant, who is wearing what appears to be an intact pressure suit.” Iranaputra looked up, blinked. “The suit is damaged but intact. There is blood within.”

  “Open the suit,” said Gelmann. “Gently. Then bring the pilot here.”

  “Immediately.” The Autothor flared sequentially. Moments later a rapidly moving service platform not unlike the kind used to deliver their meals arrived. It whizzed through the cavernous portal and down onto the beach, humming to a halt before them. Heath gave Gelmann a hand up and together they crowded around the smooth rectangle and its limp burden, gazing down at where it lay quiescent on the sand. The serving robot trundled over to have a look for itself while the Autothor remained in the background.

  “Not a particularly impressive example of the species,” Ksarusix sniffed. “Just younger.” Indeed, the battered pilot was small, diminutive even. All five of the seniors were taller, including the slightly framed Iranaputra.

  “It’s a woman,” said Gelmann.

  “No shit.” The eager Hawkins pressed for a closer look.

  She is very beautiful, Iranaputra mused. Her black hair was trimmed short in a severe military cut except for the single tight braid which started atop her head and wound down at the back of her neck in a snakelike pattern. In her pale yellow duty undersuit she looked at once fragile and sensuous. The suit was torn in several places and blood was visible in the rips and on her badly bruised forehead.

  Heath and Gelmann knelt to examine her. “No active bleeding,” he declared after a few moments. “No sign of any weapons either.” Hawkins thought to say something but this time decided to check his instinctive response.

  As one grew older it became more difficult to guess the age of others, but Iranaputra was certain she couldn’t be more than thirty, if that.

  Gelmann was wiping at the woman’s forehead, using the hem of her blouse. “Messy, but not deep. Scalp wounds bleed a lot.”

  “We should probably get her out of that suit,” said Hawkins eagerly, wishing to confirm his initial topographic evaluation.

  Gelmann eyed him reproachfully. “Wesley says the bleeding’s stopped. So there’s no reason.”

  “Her eyelids are flickering,” Shimoda observed.

  Heath and Gelmann stepped back. As they looked on, the woman blinked, let out a groan, and struggled to sit up, using her hands against the sand. Fingers traveled tentatively to the head wound, exploring cautiously. Then she noticed the concerned faces staring down at her.

  “Where am I?” Iranaputra thought her voice girlish but confident. She turned to take in the cliffs, the beach, the sea beyond. “The alien vessel, I thought …”

  “You’re on board, dear,” Gelmann assured her. “This ship’s big enough to hold everything else. Why not an ocean?” She smiled.

  The woman moaned again, wincing. “Well, all of you look right anyway.”

  “What do you mean, we look right?” wondered Iranaputra.

  “There are dossiers on all of you. All the leagues have them. Everyone knows about you.” She felt gingerly of her left arm. “I think I sprained something.”

  “Are you with the First Federals or the Keiretsu?” Shimoda inquired curiously.

  “Federals? No, I’m a Candomblean.”

  “Clever of them, what?” murmured Heath. “They can’t hope to match the strength of the larger leagues, so they try subtlety instead. Tell me, young lady, did you volunteer for this mission or were you ordered to take it upon yourself?”

  She made a derisive noise. “What do you think? No one in their free mind would do something like this. Everybody knows what happened to the Chakans.” She paused, seemed to be waiting for a response. “Well? Are you going to kill me?”

  “Oh, I think not.” Heath beamed down at her. “Not as long as you cooperate.”

  “What’s your name, dear?” Gelmann asked her.

  “Zabela Ashili. Do you want my rank and ident number as well?”

  “That won’t be necessary.” Quite a pretty child, Gelmann thought privately. “Can you stand?”

  “I know I can stand. I just don’t want to, if you don’t mind.” She began to absorb her surroundings more thoroughly. “What is this place?”

  “We’re not sure. Perhaps it was some kind of recreation area for the crew, or simply an oversize kinetic sculpture. We haven’t worried about it.”

  “Incredible. Speaking of the crew …” She looked around as she felt of her forehead.

  “There is no crew.” Shimoda was studying her thoughtfully.

  “But you were overheard talking to something on board.”

  “The Autothor.” Iranaputra beckoned to the blue ellipse. The young woman flinched at its initial approach, but when she saw how indifferent the oldsters were to its presence, she relaxed. “It is some kind of command and communications device. Since we cannot see very far into it, we cannot tell if it is a physicality or simply organized energy. Needless to say, none of us is very knowledgeable in such matters.”

  “It only listens to us, so don’t get any funny ideas,” Hawkins warned her.

  She made a face. “How could I get any ‘funny ideas’? There’s five of you and only one of me, you’re all bigger than me, I’m unarmed, I have no idea what you can make that thing do”—she indicated the silent Autothor—”and I’m pretty badly banged up. The only ‘funny idea’ is the thought that I could have any funny ideas. I could do with a good laugh, except I hurt too much. I’m just glad to be alive.”

  “That’s good, dear.” Gelmann indicated her companions. “Because Wesley is a trained military man” (after a moment’s surprise Heath straightened officiously) “and Mr. Shimoda is very good at sumo.”

  “You don’t have to threaten me.” Ashili spoke crossly as she tested her right knee. “I was just sent here to gather information.”

  “Well, you’re certainly gathering it.” Gelmann smiled down at her. “Eventually I guess we’ll let you take it back with you.”

  “How did I get here anyway?”

  “The Autothor brought your ship aboard and winkled you out of what was left of it. At our direction, of course,” Iranaputra reminded her. “What happened to you out there?”

  “Drive malfunction. Ship they gave me was supposed to be self-diagnosing and self-repairing, except that the AI dysynapsed and that was that. I was losing air so fast I barely had time to scramble into a suit.”

  “That’s tough.” Hawkins leaned toward her. “Sure you don’t want to stand up?”

  “I think I’d better sit for a while yet. But I’d give a year’s pay for a glass of water.”

  Iranaputra’s eyes twinkled. “Oh, we can do better than that.” He turned to the Autothor. “A selection of cold drinks, please.”

  A few minutes later the familiar high-speed serving platform arrived, laden with a glistening assortment of synthesized chilled refreshments.

  Their new guest gaped at the display. “That’s the most astonishing thing I’ve ever seen outside this ship itself. It just responds to your verbal requests?”

  “So far,” Heath admitted. “I do believe it’s becoming rather fond of us.”

  Delicately she sampled the taste of a tall tumbler full of pale red fluid. Her eyes brightened and she quickly downed the contents entire, putting the empty container aside with a sigh.

  “I was the lowest ranking qualified,” she informed them without prompting as she browsed among the other glasses. “They didn’t give me any choice.”

  “I know how that is.” Hawkins let out a heartfelt sigh of his own.

  “You’re all being awfully nice to me,” she purred. Iranaputra thought her winsome smile radiant.

  “It’s not like you attacked us, young lady,” Heath harrumphed. “Not like those bellicose Chakans. Now, then: What world are you from?”

  She beamed at him. “Yemanja.”

  “Never been there, what?”

  “It’s the Candomblean water world. Not much population, but very pretty.” Her expression sank. “I don’t imagine I’ll ever see it again.”

  “Don’t talk like that,” said Shimoda. “If your people won’t take you back, we’ll see about making other arrangements for you.”

  “As I said, you’re very kind.” She favored Shimoda with a smile so lustrous he tried to suck in his colossal belly somewhat, a disruption of physical reality akin to reversing entropy.

  “It was hypothesized by some,” she went on, “that you people somehow constituted some sinister cabal that was in league with the mysterious aliens. I can see now how silly that was. But I guess you can’t blame people. The appearance of this ship has been quite a shock to everyone.”

  “Us too,” said Shimoda. “How are they reacting?”

  “There’s a lot of incredulity on many worlds, in spite of the verified reports and the vids. The various governments are being evasive, whether to prevent panic or conceal their own intentions I can’t say. Candomble is no different.”

  She sipped at a second drink, this one a bright lime green. “What are you going to do? What are your plans?”

  “We have not decided yet.” Iranaputra stood with his hands behind his back, his toes dug into the sand. “So far we have been dealing with things as they happen.”

  “Then your being aboard really is an accident?” Several of them nodded.

  She considered the admission. “I didn’t want to do this. When the fire started, I was sure it was all over. That I’d never see my mother and father again.” Tears started to trickle from the corners of both eyes. She cried quietly, with hardly any noise. Heath offered her his shirt.

  “Thank you.” She wiped at her face.

  It was just a little, just a tiny bit, too much for Mina Gelmann. She was old, yes, but not senile. The manner in which her quartet of male friends was now fawning over their unexpected visitor inexorably led her to consider the possibility, however slight on the face of it, that the young woman they had rescued might be capable of as yet unsuspected subtleties.

  AI dysynapsing? Multiple bruises, contusions, a bloody but minor head wound but nothing serious? Gelmann kept her slight suspicions to herself. Nor did she betray them through her tone of voice, since there was little need for her to say anything. Her four companions seemed more than anxious to do any and all talking that was required. Even the normally introspective Shimoda was posturing outrageously. Not that he was aware of it, of course. He was a man.

  Could it be that after so many years as the center of attention she was jealous? Gelmann refused to countenance the thought. She was much, much too intelligent to succumb to something so subjective.

  “Sand’s warm,” Ashili commented absently. “What other wonders does this artifact contain?”

  “We’ve only explored a small portion.” Heath sounded almost apologetic. “The individual chambers and rooms are huge. The crew must’ve numbered in the thousands.”

  “Tens of thousands,” Hawkins added emphatically.

  “And you’ve done all this on your own. You’re quite a remarkable bunch, you know.”

  “We have done no more than cope with the situation in which we have found ourselves,” Heath murmured. “Some of us have had a bit of experience in extraordinary circumstances, you know.”

  “I’ve heard that this artifact is more than a million years old.” She had begun to examine her surroundings more thoroughly.