three Gammas, one neutered Beta and, surprisingly, one Alpha of the ruling caste. All have offered to share my pain, and I have declined.
Lunch arrives early, and I tell myself that the transport to the Library must surely occur soon.
This time, the tray is collected without even an attendant’s visit to the room. Outside, through the luxurious cultured-diamond picture window, the pattern of shade and highlight flows across Belberyan’s minareted cityscape. My gaze returns every so often to the tall turret I have identified as the Library.
Hours pass.
I have decided that the delay could be a difficulty in converting a viewing room within the Library into a habitat capable of supporting Earthlife for the duration of my visit. However, if such activity is occurring within the tower, it is not discernible from my hotel-room window.
Around 1400 local, I lie back on the chaise and, for want of anything better to do, run through the categories of information most urgently sought from the Cygnids. Time in the Library will almost inevitably be too short, and I must prioritize in order to make best use of my stay. To better visualize the data groupings I seek, I close my eyes.
The ceiling is discernibly darker when I awaken some two or three hours later. A cluster of Cygnids have arrived in the room, and from their attitudes I can see they are unsettled to have found me asleep. This must be, I imagine, the appointed time. I stand up, raising my hand in a gesture of appreciation. They stare at me with what appears to be disappointment. One is examining the reader device, and shows it to the others. Then they point towards the door, and one of the larger Gammas shoulders my heavy portmanteau. I walk with them towards the elevator spindle.
This is it. I am on my way, at last!
The Cygnids have still not made any comment.
They direct me, courteously but without the customary ceremony, into a large groundcar. My portmanteau is loaded in beside me, while three Gammas climb into the front compartment. I am sharing the rear compartment with a solitary Beta, who is equipped with a compact package that I presume to be his breathing equipment. As the vehicle starts off, it soon becomes apparent that we are not heading towards the expected tower, but in the direction of the Terran shuttleport. Confused, I turn to my travelling companion, and ask, “I thought I was to go to the Library?”
“ Correct,” he replies in a metal-tinged voice.
“ Then where is this Library?” A horrible suspicion has begun to manifest itself, as the Beta points back towards the tower containing my erstwhile hotel room. Even at this distance, I can see that some Cygnid cranes have moved into position, and have started to lower the massive picture window from its tenth-story vantage point towards the ground.
A dreadful, shameful realization floods through me, as I reflect on the past twenty-four hours.
The picture window! Synthetic diamond. Atomic-level storage. Sixes and sevens: neutron numbers. Carbon-12 and carbon-13, and a large slab of diamond in which the position of no isotopic nucleus is unintentional. A request, an offer, repeated with increasing urgency by so many concerned Library staff. I shear your pane?
The reader device, scraping and analyzing one coded carbon monolayer at a time.
The picture window, which I stared through, unseeing.
The Library.
I have frittered away my precious time; and I am alone with my pain.
Birthright
Ian Smith
Hiding in the bushes was not how Nessa expected to spend her afternoon. She tried crouching, but she wore her best school clothes and the ground was muddy. Plus there were bugs and spider webs and other such nastiness on the plant leaves. Though she could tell Mosey was uneasy with her
Lunch arrives early, and I tell myself that the transport to the Library must surely occur soon.
This time, the tray is collected without even an attendant’s visit to the room. Outside, through the luxurious cultured-diamond picture window, the pattern of shade and highlight flows across Belberyan’s minareted cityscape. My gaze returns every so often to the tall turret I have identified as the Library.
Hours pass.
I have decided that the delay could be a difficulty in converting a viewing room within the Library into a habitat capable of supporting Earthlife for the duration of my visit. However, if such activity is occurring within the tower, it is not discernible from my hotel-room window.
Around 1400 local, I lie back on the chaise and, for want of anything better to do, run through the categories of information most urgently sought from the Cygnids. Time in the Library will almost inevitably be too short, and I must prioritize in order to make best use of my stay. To better visualize the data groupings I seek, I close my eyes.
The ceiling is discernibly darker when I awaken some two or three hours later. A cluster of Cygnids have arrived in the room, and from their attitudes I can see they are unsettled to have found me asleep. This must be, I imagine, the appointed time. I stand up, raising my hand in a gesture of appreciation. They stare at me with what appears to be disappointment. One is examining the reader device, and shows it to the others. Then they point towards the door, and one of the larger Gammas shoulders my heavy portmanteau. I walk with them towards the elevator spindle.
This is it. I am on my way, at last!
The Cygnids have still not made any comment.
They direct me, courteously but without the customary ceremony, into a large groundcar. My portmanteau is loaded in beside me, while three Gammas climb into the front compartment. I am sharing the rear compartment with a solitary Beta, who is equipped with a compact package that I presume to be his breathing equipment. As the vehicle starts off, it soon becomes apparent that we are not heading towards the expected tower, but in the direction of the Terran shuttleport. Confused, I turn to my travelling companion, and ask, “I thought I was to go to the Library?”
“ Correct,” he replies in a metal-tinged voice.
“ Then where is this Library?” A horrible suspicion has begun to manifest itself, as the Beta points back towards the tower containing my erstwhile hotel room. Even at this distance, I can see that some Cygnid cranes have moved into position, and have started to lower the massive picture window from its tenth-story vantage point towards the ground.
A dreadful, shameful realization floods through me, as I reflect on the past twenty-four hours.
The picture window! Synthetic diamond. Atomic-level storage. Sixes and sevens: neutron numbers. Carbon-12 and carbon-13, and a large slab of diamond in which the position of no isotopic nucleus is unintentional. A request, an offer, repeated with increasing urgency by so many concerned Library staff. I shear your pane?
The reader device, scraping and analyzing one coded carbon monolayer at a time.
The picture window, which I stared through, unseeing.
The Library.
I have frittered away my precious time; and I am alone with my pain.
Birthright
Ian Smith
Hiding in the bushes was not how Nessa expected to spend her afternoon. She tried crouching, but she wore her best school clothes and the ground was muddy. Plus there were bugs and spider webs and other such nastiness on the plant leaves. Though she could tell Mosey was uneasy with her
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