Jeffrey A. Carver - Starstream 1 - From A Changeling Star

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From a Changeling Star

Jeffrey A. Carver

An [e - reads ] Book

No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopy,

recording, scanning or any information storage retrieval system, without explicit permission in writing from the Author.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.

Any resemblance to actual events or locals or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

First e-reads publication 1999

www.e-reads.com

ISBN 0-7592-0665-1

Author Biography

A native of Huron, Ohio, Jeffrey Carver has lived in New England since graduating from

Brown University in 1971 with a degree in English. In 1974 he earned a Master of Marine

Affairs degree from the University of Rhode Island. He has been a high school wrestler, a scuba

diving instructor, a quahog diver, a UPS sorter, a word-processing consultant, a private pilot,

and a stay-at-home dad. He lives with his family in Arlington, Massachusetts, where he divides

his writing time between fiction writing and instructional design/technical writing. He is a

member of the Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers of America, and The Authors Guild. His

interests include his wife and kids, science, religion, nature, underwater exploration, and flying.

Other works by Jeffrey A. Carver also available in e-reads editions

Down the Stream of Star

Acknowledgments

I could not have written this book without the help of numerous talented and

knowledgeable people, all of whom were exceedingly generous with their time and knowledge.

The novel owes its genesis in part to the work of K. Eric Drexler, who provided me with

considerable information about the field of nanotechnology, not only through personal

conversation, but also through his own excellent book, The Engines of Creation. If you like this

novel, I heartily recommend his nonfiction account of the emerging technologies of the very

small.

For help with the astrophysics, I must give the greatest thanks to Larry Molnar, who

provided long hours of thoughtful conversation on a subject that could quite easily have been

classified as bizarre. I hope I haven’t damaged his professional reputation. Nor those of the

following of his colleagues at the Harvard-Smithsonian Center for Astrophysics, all of whom

sat down with the curious science fiction writer who appeared on their respective doorsteps

and willingly explained the stuff of their trade: Bob Scherrer, for the scoop on cosmic string,

which is not quite the same thing as the hyperstring described here; Margarita Karovska and

Peter Nisenson, who joyfully told me all about Betelgeuse and how I might blow it up; Bob

Kirshner, who told me about supernovas, and how I might not blow it up. Also C. F. A. librarian

Joyce Rey-Watson, who would probably lose her job if her boss knew how helpful she’d been

to a curious science fiction writer when she was supposed to be doing other things; and a

librarian whose name I do not know at the Arlington Bobbins Library, who helped me with

prefixes.

The following is obviously a work of fiction; nevertheless, I’ve aimed for scientific

credibility throughout (subject to some important future developments, such as n-dimensional

fields, FTL, and the seventh force). However, please don’t blame any of these people for the

ways in which I have fiddled with their technical input.

I received more than technical help, of course. Special thanks to Amy Stout and Lou

Aronica of Bantam, for their warmth, perceptiveness, and enthusiasm—and yes, it did make a

difference; and to art director Jamie Warren for caring about science fiction literature and

science fiction art. Plus, of course, Richard Curtis, without whose eagle-eyed assistance this all

might have gone very differently.

And what would I do without the Group? Thanks, Victoria and Richard and Mary and

Craig—for helping me rid the book of hokes and awaks and dreadful idioms, for being so

damnably hard to please.

Crystal, Dave and Cathy, Norm and Peggy, Larry (again) and Cindy, Mark and Misty, Ted

and Robin. Doug Stuart, too. You guys know why.

Chuck. You know why, too.

Sam. Who else would have lain at my feet every day for the length of an entire book?

And finally of course Allysen Palmer, without whose loving encouragement I probably

would have thrown it all in the brook long ago.

Arlington, Mass., 1987

For Allysen, of course

Table of Contents

Part One - Changeling

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Part Two - Worlds Within

Prologue

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Part Three - Project Breakstar

Prologue

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Part Four - Transfiguration

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

From a Changeling Star

Part One

Changeling

“The time is close when you shall forget all things …”

—Marcus Aurelius

Prologue

Starmuse Station

Auricle Alliance Science Council

in close orbit, Alpha Orionis A (Betelgeuse)

Date: 30/8/178

The image of the swollen sun blazed like a deep crimson ocean in the wall-screen, the dark

supergranulations in the sun’s surface pulsing slowly, hypnotically. Thalia Sharaane gazed at

the image for a long time before turning. “Where is he?” she murmured, repeating the

question that had just been put to her. “Don’t you think I’d like to know myself?”

The man standing on the far side of her desk stirred. “We’re going to have to make some

decision about what to do if he doesn’t show, Thalia,” Snyder said.

“It might not be necessary.”

“Well, in my opinion—”

“I didn’t ask,” she snapped.

“I’m giving it anyway. We’re too dependent on him. He at least ought to let us know if he’s

planning to delay arriving. What was the last update he sent you?”

Sharaane didn’t bother answering, because they both knew the answer: it had been weeks

since the last n-channel communication, and no final itinerary had been received, nor any reply

to their messages. Either he would come or he wouldn’t. She gazed again at that enormous

body of roiling, fusing gases: a supergiant red sun, over a hundred million kilometers in

diameter. A box in the upper corner of the screen showed the near companion star, Honey,

orbiting so close it practically caressed its primary, Betelgeuse. The Starmuse space station was

actually orbiting in the very fringes of Betelgeuse, at the outer edge of its photosphere. This sun

system, as they knew it, would not be here much longer. She wondered, could they really hope

to survive the violent transformation that would change it into something beyond imagining?

Thalia turned. “I trust him. He’ll be here. I’m sure of it.” She pressed her lips together,

feeling tension rise into the back of her neck. Yes, she trusted him—to a point. She’d loved him

once, after all. And she respected him—and needed him. The entire project needed him. But

Project Breakstar would go off, had to go off, whether he was here or not; forces were

converging that could not be stopped. She was prepared for either eventuality; but without

him to guide it all at the end … she simply did not care to dwell on those odds.

Snyder had moved to stand beside her. “Sorry,” he said gently. “I know you’re worried,

too.” He joined her in contemplating the image of the sun system, assembled on this screen

from dozens of remote satellites. It was hard to imagine, to really believe, deep down in the core

of one’s being, that they were actually floating inside this star.

“It’s too lulling,” Snyder said, startling her.

She frowned. “Lulling? What do you mean?”

“Just that it’s so large, and so … steady. Predictable.”

“With all of the trouble we’ve had mapping the changes, you can say that?”

He shrugged. “I just mean it’s easy to start thinking of that as our only problem. To forget

the other problems.” Snyder cleared his throat, suddenly uncomfortable. Thalia looked at him

sharply, and he sighed. “I’m sorry—I just keep wondering if something’s happened to him.

There are people who wouldn’t like what we’re doing. If they knew.”

“That’s extremely unlikely, you know.”

He nodded. “Unlikely. Yes.” He seemed about to say something more, then frowned,

having apparently decided to keep it to himself.

Sharaane scowled. “Well, if something’s happened, it would be out of our hands, then,

wouldn’t it?” When he didn’t reply, she added, “Just do your part, and let me worry about the

rest. Make whatever preparations you feel you need.”

Snyder nodded dubiously. He hesitated, then turned away and left Thalia staring at the

relentless, glowing face of the sun.

|Go to Table of Contents|

Chapter 1

The shot crackled through the forest air, a line of exploding leaves and twigs marking the

passage of the sputter-beam. The man who stood in its path was unaware of his danger, for an

instant that lasted forever: he observed the flicker of the beam, and wondered at its source, and

even its target. He was just beginning to wonder if the target could be him, when, with no more

awareness of the hole in his chest than a slight tingle, he collapsed.

And then he died, scarcely feeling the scream of pain that his shattered nerve endings sent

toward his brain.

He never felt at all the second, and entirely unnecessary, shot through the base of his neck.

The forest was still, as though all of its walking and flying creatures had paused to listen to

the death-sigh of the man’s passing. Then the rustling, the buzzing began again, and life

returned to normal—except for the fallen man. Three grebel-mice hunted on the needles and

leaves that matted the forest floor. They scampered near the dead man’s left arm, which had

twisted and dislocated at the shoulder as he fell. His fingers twitched once, but that was a dying

reflex, nothing more. His eyes were open, vacant.

Overhead, felker birds soared high against the golden sun, gliding in effortless circles on the

updrafts over the mountain escarpment that jutted up out of the forest. Two of the birds sank

toward the treetops, swooping, peering through the tree cover, investigating a possible late

afternoon meal. The grebel-mice scurried for cover. A rust-fox trotted past the dead man,

unafraid of the felker birds and uninterested in the corpse.

The felker birds were not quick to action, preferring caution. While they were watching, so

too was something else a short distance away in the woods, peering at the dead man through

high-powered optics. He watched as one of the felkers landed in a treetop, then hopped to a

lower branch above the corpse. After a few minutes the felker was joined by one of its

brethren, and a moment later by a third, then a fourth. The birds peered down at the body, as

though puzzled.

The killer, watching through the expensive optics, was puzzled as well. There had been a

movement, a twitch. That was extremely odd. The body had registered in the sensors as

cooling, unmoving, lifeless. In fact, he had stayed only because prudence demanded it, not

because there was any reason to expect anything to happen.

There was another twitch.

The dead man’s dislocated left arm jerked toward his side. It appeared to pop back into

place. The dead man rolled slowly onto his back and gazed sightlessly at the sky.

The killer moved to the left, seeking a clearer view. Was it possible that the man was

breathing? More powerful optics clicked into place.

Slowly the dead man raised his hand.

The awakening was accompanied by a rush of pain, but it was masked and separated from

the inner consciousness as though by a sheet of glass, one room from another. The man looked

at the pain, felt it in a tentative, testing way, and wondered where it had come from.

A moment later he became aware of another sensation:

He saw the sky.

It was a deep blue ceiling visible through the treetops, a golden sun shining through one

branch. It was an unexpected viewpoint, as though he were on his back under a tree. Under a

tree? As though he were waking from a nap. There was a buzzing in his head and confusion in

his mind. He shivered. His left shoulder ached dully. Overhead he saw several shapes

silhouetted, like birds of prey: felker birds. Vague signals of danger rang in his mind, but they,

like the signals of pain, were on the other side of his brain, isolated.

Felker birds. Carrion eaters. Why here; why now?

And simmering beneath the surface was a more urgent question:

Where am I?

The killer carefully raised the sputter-rifle and brought its sights to bear on the target, but

desisted from firing. Instead he waited, curiosity joined by astonishment—and by a slight but

nagging sense of fear. The man had been killed; the long-range biological scan had confirmed it.

Then why had its arm moved? Why were its eyes blinking?

The assassin waited. It didn’t make sense. But if the subject had to be killed twice, then it

would be killed twice.

His head cleared slowly. He started to push himself up; but he was weaker than he could

have believed possible, and his left shoulder was throbbing. He collapsed again and lay flat on

his back, breathing with difficulty. His ears were ringing. He moved his right hand to scratch at

a burning sensation on his chest, then froze. There was a hole in his jacket and shirt, near his

sternum. Fearfully, he probed at it with his finger. He gasped, drew a sharp, ragged breath. The

hole went into him, and it hurt like hell.

And yet. Even as he touched it, the hole seemed to be closing, seemed to hurt less. The skin

was tightening; the hole was becoming a tender-bottomed depression. It itched.

For a moment, he lay motionless, breathing quietly. Then he struggled again to rise. He felt

a little stronger this time, and with a great effort, pushed himself awkwardly up onto one

elbow. He squinted, looking around. He was surrounded by a dense wood. There was no sign

of human life. Overhead, the felker birds flapped their wings, squawking in annoyance. Not

today! he thought at them.

He heard a branch snap and turned to look.

Rifle at ready, the assassin watched in amazement as the man pushed himself up from the

ground. The angle of attack was not quite right; the assassin crept a little farther to the

left—carefully, but not carefully enough. He felt the branch underfoot only an instant before it

snapped.

The man’s head turned in surprise.

Aiming at the center of the man’s forehead, the assassin squeezed the trigger.

The awareness of it lasted only for an instant: fire blazing in his eyes. Then he died again.

His last memory was of a single dazzling star in darkness.

The hrisi assassin rose from his crouch and stepped out of concealment. This time, no

chances were to be taken. He aimed again from half the distance and burned another hole

through the man’s head. Moving closer still, he shot the man several times in the chest. Finally,

crouched near the body, he took sensor readings and determined that: body temperature was

dropping, heart-action had ceased, blood was pooling in the abdomen, electrochemical

brain-function was nil, and pupillary reflexes were absent. He prodded the body once with he

foot. There was no response.

The assassin was not satisfied. The job was done, really, but the subject had already come

back to life once and might do so again. Out of curiosity as much as caution, he retreated to a

protected position to observe again. As the minutes passed, he opened a shoulder pouch and

withdrew a small plastic bag. Opening the bag, he took out a food bar, unwrapped it, and

began to eat.

Overhead, the felker birds circled against the sun.

Consciousness returned like a predawn light, and with it a memory. The memory was

without context, but he remembered raising his head—and dying. It was enough to trigger the

thought: Don’t raise your head.

Sensation returned slowly. His face was pressed to the ground, his nostrils filled with the

scent of humus and fallen needles—and the smell of burned flesh. A thread of fear rippled

through his mind. Don’t raise your head. He was so frightened that he held his breath for nearly

a minute.

He lay absolutely still, trying to think. Where am I—and why? He had no recollection; no

data. What happened to me? There was no memory of that, either—but he felt a burning itch in

the center of his forehead, and in his chest, and at the base of his neck. He started to move his

hands, heard the inner voice warning him again; he drew a slow, deep breath instead. The itch

was subsiding anyway. Lying motionless, face to the ground, he thought: At least I know who I

am. There was a long inner hesitation. I am—

His thoughts stopped, blank.

He remembered the sound of a snapping branch; remembered a wound in his chest. There

were no sounds now. Perhaps he had imagined it. Perhaps whatever had made it was gone

now. He couldn’t lie here forever.

Decision made, he drew a sharp breath—and got a mouthful of needles. Coughing

involuntarily, he spat the needles out and pushed himself up. His muscles hurt, but there was

strength in them. He rolled and sat up and looked around. Nothing here but trees and brush.

His gaze dropped, and he raised a hand wonderingly to an array of holes in his jacket. Tugging

open his jacket and shirt front, he examined his bare chest. There were four wounds healing

between his sternum and his left nipple. Three were angry red, but closed. The fourth was

already covered over with pink scar tissue. Warily, almost not wanting to know, he touched his

forehead—and trembled, as his fingers found another wound.

He heard something, caught a movement to his left, turned his head. Something stepped

through the brush. A tall figure, crouching. Bringing a rifle to bear. No, God, not again!

The hrisi was growing impatient with this charade. And angry: Why was this target so

reluctant to die? It should not have been difficult to dispatch a single unarmed man and make

it stick; and yet, here it was, coming back to life again. The assassin inspected the sputtergun

and tuned it to maximum power. One shot at this setting would use up most of the gun’s

reserves, but one shot was all he would need.

The man coughed and sat up, looking around. It seemed not to see the assassin, but began

inspecting its wounds.

The hrisi rose out of his hiding place. As a precaution, he projected an illusion, altering he

own appearance. He stepped through the brush toward the man—and brought the gun to

firing position. Allowing a heartbeat or two to pass (enough time for horror to appear in the

eyes—he was angry with this man), the hrisi aimed at a point between the man’s eyes.

And fired.

The eruption sent a shock wave through he own shoulder—and took half the subject’s head

off. The man couldn’t have felt a thing.

The hrisi stepped forward and gazed at the smoking remains with distaste. He checked the

sensor readings, but it seemed superfluous; the corpse was a shambles. The brutality of the

shot was offensive; he greatly preferred a clean kill. Behind the corpse, a bush was blackened

and smoldering; small flames were licking at the underbrush. The assassin carefully stamped

out the flames; a forest fire could cause considerable damage. That would be not just offensive,

but unprofessional.

The man must have moved at the instant of firing. A fair portion of the left side of its head

was gone, but less than he had been aiming to remove. Still, this time it was dead,

incontrovertibly so.

And if it wasn’t, this hrisi did not want to be here to face it again. Slinging the rifle, he

turned and strode off through the forest.

The felker birds glided in descending, tightening orbits. Eventually they landed in the

treetops. One by one they dropped to the lower branches. Yawking to one another, they

sharpened their beaks on the tree bark. And they waited a few minutes longer, just to be sure.

|Go to Table of Contents|

Chapter 2

He dreamed of flailing his arms, of thrashing against darting enemies, of being bound and

captive. He dreamed in red, bright red, the red of blood. Silent voices cried and shouted at

him, and he could not answer. He did not know who he was.

He dreamed that his head was the head of a gargoyle. His face was being remade, turned

into that of a poor changeling child: the head of a serpent, the nose of a snapping frog, the eyes

and the brow of a newborn baby.

He dreamed that he was being split apart and put back together again.

He awoke with a gruesome headache and a terrible thirst.

At first he could not move at all, or even open his eyes. He lay still, conscious only of the

thudding of blood in his temples, each heartbeat sending a shock wave of pain through his

skull. A time passed that could not have been more than a minute, and yet seemed an eternity;

then his eyes were open.

Overhead was the empty chamber of the sky, framed by dancing treetops. The sunlight

was angled, the sun itself out of view; but the sky was so bright it made his head hurt worse

than before. He remembered thirst. Just the thought made him dizzy, made him almost lose

consciousness again.

But he didn’t pass out. And as he clung to consciousness, he began to remember …

Images: a tall figure moving through the woods toward him; a bird gliding overhead for a

long time before finally flapping its wings and departing; himself climbing a trail along a rocky

cliff, the sight of a river winding its way through a forest far below …

The images faded. He tried to turn his head. The effort hurt. He struggled to focus on the

nearest object. It was a felker bird, crouched on the ground a meter from his face. It peered

back at him, eyes glittering, beak dripping. He held its gaze …

A strangely frozen moment of time came to an end, and the bird shifted its head a

centimeter. It looked annoyed. What had it been doing, preying on small animals while waiting

for him to die? “Go on!” he hissed, straining to heave himself up to a sitting position, and

danger be damned. He was surprised by the strength in his body. “Get lost!” He batted his

hand in the creature’s direction.

His left arm throbbed. When he looked at it, he nearly fainted again. His sleeve had been

ripped away; and beneath the shredded fabric, his flesh was torn open nearly the length of his

arm. Or rather, it had been torn open; the wound, though ragged (as though ripped, perhaps,

by a beak?) was already closed over with delicate pink skin. There was dried blood on the

remnants of his sleeve, but little on his skin. He swallowed and glared up at the bird, flexing his

arm. It worked, but painfully.

“Rawwk!”the bird muttered.

“Get out of here!” he growled, trying to put menace into his voice. He groped on the

ground for something—anything—to use as a weapon.

The bird bent and plucked at something reddish brown and stringy that lay at its feet. It

looked like a bit of flesh. Human flesh?

Sickened at the thought, he almost failed to notice the dead branch beneath his hand. Then

his fingers closed on it, reflexively. He brought it around with all of his strength—intending to

throw it at the bird. His hand failed to release it, and it whumped down onto the ground in

front of the bird.

“Yawk!”The bird hopped back.

“You little bastard!” he hissed furiously. He gasped, clutching his shoulder. He rocked back

and forth until the pain of the sudden movement subsided. He hurt all over.

The bird warbled deep in its throat and lunged to peck at him. He swiped at it with the

branch. It squawked away, then lunged again. This time he caught it with the branch and sent

it reeling. That was enough for the felker. With a scree ing cry, it took to flight, flapping up a

cloud of dust as it went.

Coughing, he watched it go. He put a hand to his aching forehead—and cried out

involuntarily. His skin felt spongy and tender, and the shape of his head felt wrong—bulbous

where it should have been slightly flattened and angular. What the hell happened? He lowered

his hand; there was no blood on his fingers. Swallowing hard, he felt his entire skull. The right

side felt normal; but the left side of his head felt hairless, soft, and fibrous. He felt no bone

under the skin. No bone …?

He stared at his fingertips. Surely they were lying. But that was impossible. At least he

could see his fingers.

His mind refused to think further of it.

The sun was dropping low behind the treetops. Did that mean it was going to become cold

soon? He wasn’t sure; but he knew one thing, and that was that he didn’t want to be out here

after dark. Whatever his other problems, if he didn’t find shelter, he could soon be in far worse

trouble.

He staggered to his feet, gasping. With a tremendous effort, he managed to keep his

balance and turn around. There was no sign of whatever had attacked him. But what he did see

made him reel: a blackened patch of brush; a scorched tree trunk; and, spattered among the

scorch marks, bits of white and pink flesh, and a few fragments of—bone. He choked on his

own bile and forced himself to turn away. Whatever that was—

He didn’t want to know.

But he did know. An image burned bright in his mind: a blazing beam of fire, and an

explosion. And then darkness. The darkness of death.

And yet he had lived. Against something that had …

Jeffrey A. Carver - Starstream 1 - From A Changeling Star

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