Jack L. Chalker - Three Kings 2 - Melchior's Fire

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Melchior’s Fire

Jack L. Chalker

A Baen Books Original

ISBN: 0-671-31991-4

Cover art by Bob Eggleton

First printing, June 2001

For L. Sprague de Camp

for old time’s sake

BAEN BOOKS by JACK L. CHALKER

Tales of the Three Kings:

Balshazzar’s Serpent

Melchior’s Fire

The Changewinds

The Demons at Rainbow Bridge

The Run to Chaos Keep

Ninety Trillion Fausts

The Identity Matrix

Downtiming the Nightside

Prologue: THE LEGEND OF THE THREE KINGS

Rationalists predicted that religion would be the first thing to fall when humanity finally went to the stars and

found no gods, no heaven or hell, that could not be explained by physics and the other sciences. Scientists never had

been all that good at predicting or understanding human culture and sociology; they never even noticed that, when

they finally went out there, every deity and supernatural belief system known at the time went right with them.

Humanity was late to the stars, considering how young in its life it had begun the quest, but, like all things it had

done, once it decided to go and had the means, it went like wildfire.

The discovery of the wormgate system and the way it could stabilize and link wormholes, which folded space and

took you many times faster than light by the simple method of stepping around it, made space travel efficient and

affordable.

First out were the unmanned, super-hardened ships that could withstand the forces within a naturally occurring

wormhole and exploit it, go through, and establish a temporary stabilizing gate on the other side. Then came the

follow-ups, mostly robotics with some human supervision, who would convert that makeshift gate into a permanent

and optimized one. Then a small maintenance station both for the gate and for ships that might come after was built

and stocked, so that parts and labor were available as needed.

Natural wormholes created weaknesses within several parsecs, allowing other holes to form. Most were quite

small and many were highly unstable, but the little probes punched through and were successful, at least most of the

time.

Next came the government types, of course, in quasi-military-equipped highly reinforced ships, looking for alien

lifeforms and new worlds to exploit.

And they found them! Not exactly alien civilizations, but certainly alien lifeforms in incredible abundance in a

universe that seemed filled with potentially human-habitable planets. Much of the alien life was basic and primitive,

the equivalent of Earth’s insects and animal and plant life, strange as it might be to the humans who went out there.

Still, while nothing was a precise match to Earth forms, and much was surprising and even revolutionary to science,

nothing really broke the rules.

Nothing also seemed to have evolved intelligence, let alone civilization, beyond the most rudimentary; evolution

was borne out, but the requirement for a fast-thinking brain seemed to be a low priority in nature’s schemes.

Humanity’s fickle interest in the exploration program waned, as it always tended to do in anything that went along

without real surprises, and the scientists and corporations who depended upon it sought new methods of funding.

Ultimately, they came up with the idea of selling off some of the best planets to interest groups back on Earth and on

the few planets that had been developed to bleed off excess Earth population. It seemed an outrageous and

unworkable idea. How many groups would even want their own planet, anyway? After all, even if they were livable,

the only reason to sell the planets at all would be because science and government had decided that the worlds had

nothing profitable to offer. And who could afford it? Certainly all of the worlds in question could be used in a self-

supporting mode, assuming settlers could import or develop Earth plants and animals that could thrive there and use

the world’s mineral resources for building. But all such a program would offer would be a return to a more primitive

life with little to bargain with.

The answer was, just about every group and leader with a dream or a vision or a political theory wanted a world.

Every established religious group, and every dissident religious group, and every cult open and secret that had

survived history or had emerged from it wanted their own world. And they all seemed to have amazing abilities to

raise sufficient funds to get one, too.

Soon there were hundreds of settled worlds, spread all over the near galaxy, connected by a network of self-

powered and self-maintained wormgates that, mapped, looked like some drunken spider’s webbing. But the one

thing they weren’t, not really, was independent.

The Earth System Combine wanted a single level of control, a single military force, and control of the economy of

the entire expanding system, if only to pay for its expenses and expansion. But over such a vast distance and with so

many quasi-independent “colonies,” direct political and military control would be expensive and impractical.

Instead, the economic system was divided so that none of the worlds established out there were in more than the

most basic sense self-sufficient. Oh, most could certainly maintain a subsistence living, some much better than that,

but for the latest technology, the cutting edge of what was possible, they were made cleverly interdependent, with no

single world having more than a tiny part of the whole. Any worlds that matured and chafed at interstellar rules and

regulations, or balked at their share of the “user and facilitation fees” paid to the Combine, were welcome to drop

out. It was then that they discovered how dependent they really were, and what it was like to be on your own in a

cleverly constructed system that even controlled access to its own parts. If you weren’t a member, the costs and fees

were huge, and prohibitive to a degree.

Some tried it anyway, but no terraforming was that far along or that absolute, and none of the worlds were true

Earthly paradises. The ones who stayed out and cut all ties were often revisited out of curiosity decades later by

Combine ships only to be found with no human survivors.

The skills that had originally made humans dominate their home planet were now dead; nobody knew them

anymore. The machines did it, but who programmed and maintained the machines? And what happened if no more

came?

And each rebel thus became an example, all without firing a shot. The Combine grew fat, and lazy, and rich, and

complacent.

Nobody knew what had caused it, nor who. The best guess was one more grab for power by yet another faction

back home who ran into a ruling clique who decided that if they couldn’t have the power and control nobody else

would. A miscalculation, a failure of intelligence or perhaps a misjudgment of will. Perhaps it was an unforeseen

enemy in their midst or from somewhere else in the vast starfields. It didn’t matter.

Whatever it was, what happened was that, one day, with no notice and no particular alarms, almost a third of the

wormgate system, the part that led back toward the Earth System and the headquarters of the Combine, simply

stopped. Nothing more emerged from the gates, even though ordinarily traffic was brisk; and, perhaps as ominously,

nothing that went into the gates after that one point ever was seen or heard from again.

Messenger probes went in and never came out. There was some indication that they might not have arrived

anywhere.

It was the Great Silence.

Two thirds of the wormhole system, and part of the military and commercial fleets, remained working and intact,

but it was the part that ran from the developing to the least developed points. There was no longer any direction, and

the finely tuned interdependency that included the third now gone could not exist any longer. Worlds did not fall into

savagery, at least not most of them, but they were far more on their own than before, and the ones who now ran what

was left of the show were the ones with operating spaceships.

The trouble was, spaceships were a commodity that had originated strictly from the Combine and near Earth

systems; there weren’t any spaceship factories in the remaining two thirds, nor the automated systems to create and

power them safely. There was maintenance, yes, but that was it, and going through artificially enlarged and

artificially maintained wormholes left little tolerance for error.

The military tended to become a force unto itself, claiming all jurisdiction over interstellar space and the gates,

financing itself by taxing the commercial ships that still ran. The commercial ships became the prizes, trying to

continue their runs, keep themselves safe and maintained, and avoid the military, potential pirates, and privateers at

the same time.

Things were breaking down and fast. Only the most profitable worlds and markets were of interest; most of the

other worlds were forgotten, neglected, or just ignored.

It was another century before the Supreme Cardinal of Vaticanus, a world maintained and developed as a religious

retreat by the Roman Catholic Church before the Great Silence, became one of the first to try and put some order

back into the system. Without contact with the Pope or even knowing for certain if there still was one, but

maintaining out of faith that there had to be, the board of cardinals who’d run the retreat and seminary world had run

things as they hoped God wished, awaiting a relinking with Earth. It hadn’t come, and now they were finally using

some of their wealth, some of their connections on the more developed colonies, and their backup of the vast Vatican

library system to send out a few dedicated priests to try and find the lost worlds.

It was probably because his name really was Ishmael.

The small probe ship came out of the void with the keys to Heaven, Hell, and perhaps someplace in between; it

brought with it evidence of fabulous riches and more, but what it didn’t bring back was a road map to the stars.

Along with the spiritual part of humanity, the legends, both good and bad, had also survived, particularly among

the few who still knew of or could follow the patterns of the scouts to the stars. Fear, doubt, and death were out there,

it was true, but perhaps not only that. Somewhere out there, in stories and songs and legends from forgotten origins,

were the Three Kings.

Every civilization had at least one such legend; every faith as well. It might be the kingdom of Prester John, or the

fabled El Dorado, or, on a more ethereal plain, it might be called Paradise, Heaven, or a state of Nirvana. On a more

secular level, it was the big one, the find of a lifetime, the jackpot, the ultimate strike. Nobody really knew what it

looked like, but everyone had their own vision, their own dream, and their own deep-down conviction that, sooner or

later, they would find it.

The major difference between all of those and the Three Kings was that almost everyone was convinced that the

Three Kings existed, and there was in fact physical evidence of it. The trouble was, its location was as mysterious

and mystical as any of the others.

Ishmael Hand was one of the breed of loners the church called Prophets and everybody else called scouts. Half

human, half machine, merged into cybernetic ships that were almost organisms in and of themselves, able to build—

or perhaps grow would be a better word—the probes and contact devices they required, these volunteers sent into the

eternal void in search of the unknown had a million motives. Hand was a mystic, and not the only one in that

category of scout; he had turned himself into the ultimate pilgrim, searching among the stars, praying, meditating

when in between, looking for something that might be out there, might actually be within his own mind, or might not

exist at all. To those who sent the volunteers out, the motive didn’t matter, so long as the supply of them continued.

It was initially done entirely by machines; smart machines, machines that were every bit the observer and

evaluator—but those machines proved lacking in several ways. They had never been living beings, born and raised in

organic environments, feeling what organic sentient beings feel, understanding in non-academic ways what organic

sentient beings really wanted or needed. They could only send back samples and reports; they could never send back

impressions that others might understand and interpret. They could quantify, but they could not dream.

Sentient beings like the human Ishmael Hand, however, also had their limits, not just physical but mental and

emotional as well, and they didn’t live long enough to cover vast distances; nor did they have the precision and detail

that cybernetic equipment could bring to a job. The marriage of creature and machine was, after much trial and error,

found to be the perfect vehicle.

Within, of course, limits.

For if they were not a little bit mad when they left, they certainly were after centuries of roaming the vastness of

the universe; yet their machine sides stayed precise and detailed. As time went on, it often became difficult to

interpret all the data properly. . . .

Once an uncharted system was sighted, scouted, and thoroughly investigated, the procedure was simple. The ships

themselves were almost organic; they could take in debris, dust, rock, whatever was out there and convert it to what

was needed, just as their external scoops could turn some of it into interstellar fuels. From this material they grew

small probes according to designs within their complex memory banks, and sent them everywhere in system. Every

type of analysis was performed, every part of everything evaluated. The most dead of worlds could contain

something of great or unique value.

Premiums, of course, were first and foremost lost colonies; then solid planets within the life zone that could be the

source of new life or, if there was anything particularly interesting, could be turned with minimal cost or effort into

new colonies. Beyond that, the ships looked for things they had never seen before, beautiful and unique creations,

knowledge.

There was a lot of life in the galaxy; that was well known. The trouble was, only a minuscule portion of it had any

brains at all; and of the handful of races bumped into by expanding humanity, none had been anything but primitive.

Ishmael Hand had recognized what he’d stumbled on almost immediately. Long before the Great Silence there

were half-whispered tales of them, but never, until now, solid physical evidence of their existence. Three planets in

the life zone that had not gone bad over the eons was just about unheard of; even two was almost never seen. That

was why, Hand speculated, nobody had really found the Three Kings since early and messed-up machine-only scouts

had first reported them.

Because the Three Kings weren’t three planets, not exactly. There was one enormous planet, a world at the outer

limits of even gas giants, and three moons, very different, yet each with thick, oxygen-rich atmospheres and water.

The largest one, bigger than the Earth, wasn’t the sort of place you wanted to visit. As big as it was, it contained

vast, active volcanic fields, and in some places the land was forever changing, floating and twisting where lava

fractured it.

And yet there was water, even two vast oceans, making almost a dance of solidity and water, and then fire and

flux, then water and solid land again, and then another fiery area. Much of the surface was concealed in clouds, but

now and then there were breaks—and those breaks showed the bizarre and fractured landscape below. It was hot on

its surface, even in the “cool” solid regions, but perhaps not too hot. There was vegetation, in a riot of colors,

wherever it could cling and not be burned off or knocked off by internal forces. It wasn’t a nice place to live and

work, but it was fascinating if only because nobody, not Ishmael Hand nor the vastly larger and more complex

thinking machines of the home empire he’d abandoned, could figure out how the heck a planet that dynamic and

contradictory could possibly exist. Although the Three Kings name was ancient, it remained for the scout to make

sense of it, and he called this huge planet Melchior.

And then there were the other large moons, among countless rather ordinary small ones. One of the larger ones

was warm but not a raging madhouse like the huge planet below that held it captive; almost 25,000 kilometers at its

equator, a small planet in captivity. It was a wonderland of islands large and small in a continuous sea, more than

forty percent land yet with no major gaps, so that any part of the water could be called an ocean, nor land masses so

huge that they might be considered continents. It was a world of lakes and islands, teeming with plants and perhaps

small animals, wild, primitive, and beautiful. This moon Hand called Balshazzar.

The third moon also had an atmosphere, but it was farther out, cold, full of bizarre and twisted rocks and spires,

great desertlike regions of red and gold and purple sand. Yet somehow, without large bodies of surface water, nor the

thick vegetation that would normally go with such an atmosphere, it retained in the air a significant amount of water

vapor that rose in the night from the ground in thick mists and vanished in the light, and oxygen, nitrogen, and many

other elements needed for life. The atmosphere was thinner than humans liked it, but they could exist there, as they’d

learned to exist atop three- and four-kilometer mountain ranges on their mother Earth and elsewhere. This third

moon Hand christened Kaspar.

“None of the figures make a lot of sense, I admit,” the scout’s report said, “but it will make some careers to

determine how these ecosystems work. God is having fun with us here, challenging us. I do not have the means to

start solving these riddles, but I feel certain that you have ones who have more than that.”

The worlds, in their own ways, also lived up to their ancient reputation, judging from the samples sent back.

Here was a small sack of apparently natural gems, gems as large as hens’ eggs and colored in translucent emerald

or ruby or sapphire, with centers of some different substance that, when viewed from different angles, seemed to

form almost pictures or shapes—familiar ones, unique to each viewer, subjective and ever-changing devices of

fascination. Machines could make synthetic copies that were almost but not quite like the real thing, of course—but

the real thing was unique in nature and thus precious.

There was sand in exotic colors, mixed within containers but nonetheless unmixed, as if the colors refused to

blend with each other and the individual grains appeared to prefer only their own company. The properties were

electromagnetic in nature but would take a long time to yield up their secrets, particularly how such things could

have come about in nature.

Plant samples at once familiar and yet so alien that they appeared to be able to convert virtually any kind of

energy into food, including, if one was not careful, any living things that touched them. Rooted plants that

nonetheless responded to sounds and actions and would attempt to bend away from probes or shears and whose own

energy fields could distort instruments and short out standard analyzers.

But most fascinating of all were the Artifacts.

They were always afterwards called the Artifacts, with a capital “A,” because there was nothing like them and no

way to explain them. Ishmael Hand found no signs of any sentient lifeforms on any of the three worlds, nor ruins,

nor any signs that anyone had ever been there before, but he, too, understood what was implied by the Artifacts.

They were not spectacular, yet they were the greatest of all finds. One was a simple cylinder, perfectly machined,

with tolerances so small, with dimensions so perfect, that one had to go down almost to the atomic level to find a

flaw. And it was machined out of an absolutely one hundred percent pure block of titanium.

It also looked very much as if it had been manufactured in a lab within the past few hours, yet the tag with it

indicated that it was lying half buried in the surface. But the entire thing was coated, to the thickness of only a dozen

atoms, in a hard coating that was close enough to one used in human manufacturing that it was inconceivable to think

of it as natural.

The second was a gear, perhaps a half a meter around, with one hundred and eighty-two fine and perfect teeth. It,

too, was machined just like the cylinder, to absolute perfection, and it, too, had the synthetic protective coating.

The third and final Artifact was a one-meter coil, made out of a totally synthetic and absolutely clear polymerlike

substance and created to the same perfect tolerances as the other two. The coil had nineteen turns and its ends were

smooth, not broken. The substance was unlike any that had ever been seen before, yet made of stuff that

contemporary labs would have no trouble duplicating. In fact, it was easily as good as what was being used but

cheaper and easier to make.

“There must be a lot of this junk around,” Ishmael Hand’s report noted. “Consider that my probes were able to

discover these three pieces with ease, although none are all that large. Don’t try and put them together, though. I

doubt if they’re from the same device. In fact, I’m nearly positive that they aren’t. You see, the coil came from

Balshazzar, the gear from Melchior, and the cylinder was sticking out of the purple desert sands on Kaspar.”

After all this time, Ishmael Hand could only have faith that anyone was even listening. He had been sent out from

a holy world, a retreat and monastic place designed to help you to find what God had in mind for you. One of its

orders had trained many of the scouts like Ishmael Hand in the mental disciplines required for such a life, and had

carefully prepared them for the long, lonely Communion. Once the Great Silence came about, they had but a few

dozen scout ships fully outfitted and not many more candidates than that. They sent half back in the direction of the

Arm and Old Earth in hopes of reestablishing contact; the others, like Hand, were sent forward to find the colonies

and remap what might be out there. Thus it was that Hand had discovered what had already been discovered, but had

also been lost. His broadband, uncoded broadcasts back to every region where there might be listeners were public

property. He was not out there for riches or material rewards.

There was enough interest and excitement about the rediscovery of the Three Kings to attract the best and the

worst of spacefaring humanity. There was only one problem. While the reporting probe contained the samples and

the report and vast amounts of data, nowhere inside could they find star maps or location data or the beacon system

that would allow them to get there in a hurry.

This was the fourteenth solar system Ishmael Hand had reported on in the two and a half centuries since he’d

launched himself into the unknown, but it was the first and only one where the location data was lacking. It wasn’t

like Hand to have any such lapses, and he certainly gave no indication in his report that he didn’t expect a horde of

expeditions to be heading out to the Three Kings straightaway. Nor did any of the data suggest damage or instability

in Hand’s ship and cybernetic parts. Not even His Holiness in Exile and his monastic group understood what might

have caused problems with Hand at this key moment.

And yet nowhere, absolutely nowhere, in any of that data, did it show where the heck the Three Kings were, and

at no point was there enough of a star sky given that would allow the position to be deduced.

Hand, as usual for him, wound up his broadcast report with a long string of prayers and chants from the Bible and

other holy books, but then he stopped in the middle and added, “You know, if I wasn’t sure this was the Three Kings

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Melchior’sFireJackL.ChalkerCopyright©2001byJackL.ChalkerABaenBooksOriginalISBN:0-671-31991-4CoverartbyBobEggletonFirstprinting,June2001ForL.SpraguedeCampforoldtime’ssakeBAENBOOKSbyJACKL.CHALKERTalesoftheThreeKings:Balshazzar’sSerpentMelchior’sFireTheChangewindsTheDemonsatRainbowBridgeTheRuntoChaosKe...

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