None of this belonged here. Not the rocktopi, not the silverbugs, not the ship. These tunnels and all they contained were nothing but death. The rocktopi race truly died out countless millennia ago in a planetary holocaust, unknown light-years away. This group, this Wah Wah Tribe, escaped that holocaust, but such escape was fleeting. They couldn't survive. Not enough material in the gene pool. Sanji had said so, or said something like that, anyway. Now it was time for the Wah Wah Tribe to join their ancestors. She was promoting the species from the endangered list straight through to extinction. Do not pass Go, do not collect $200.
She reached the control panel, recognizing it from the alcove carvings. Doubts filled her — it looked menacingly complex, but how complex could it be? The Old Rocktopi had set up everything so their descendants could survive in simplicity: the silverbugs did all the farming and all the maintenance; laws and religions were carved into the walls; pictoglyphs were prepared in case the written language faded away among a shrinking, diseased gene pool.
She imagined how it happened. The first thousand years probably went by fine, the rocktopi living happily in their new home, teaching their children history, language, technology, possibly even the arts. Perhaps the second and possibly third millennia slipped by in peace and comfort. Then things — inevitably — broke down.
Any technology, no matter how advanced, couldn't last forever. Slowly stockpiles of parts eroded into nothing, until finally pieces of complex machines couldn't be replaced. To be sure the advanced rocktopi found ways around the problem, but more millennia passed and machines simply stopped working. Only a handful in the beginning, a few minor systems here and there, but enough to start a cascading effect, a chain reaction that over thousands of years shut down their entire system.
Rocktopi children grew up knowing of nothing but the caverns. Stories of spacefaring and a distant home planet faded into legend as computers and educational tools broke down into useless junk. Much of the Earth's history was already forgotten, after all; even large amounts of American history had slipped through time's cracks. America was a mere 235 years old. How much could be remembered after eleven thousand years?
The Old Rocktopi must have seen their society's gradual erosion; perhaps they even predicted it. The last of the technological knowledge may have poured into converting the silverbugs, making slave machines that could farm, that could dig underground cities, that could scout, that could maintain simple programs in their memory and keep the rocktopi alive.
At one time the silverbugs were no more than servant machines catering to the rocktopi's every need. Thousands of years passed, countless generations, and gradually the silverbugs became part of the environment, as common as air or the stone walls of the rocktopi's tiny universe. Eventually, perhaps hundreds of generations after the plague, the rocktopi's intellect faded away. Wracked by ignorance and genetic deterioration, they regressed to little more than savages, kept alive only by the silverbugs.
The servants became the keepers.
She looked at the control panel in a new light: it was the only piece of machinery they'd seen since arriving, except for the artificial suns. Priorities. The silverbugs were programmed with priorities, instructed to keep the most important machines functioning at the expense of all else. How important was an educational computer if the artificial suns ceased functioning and no food could be grown? The suns were an obvious first priority, and by appearances the doomsday device ran a close second. Whatever that mysterious enemy was capable of, death was far more desirable.
And if such a death was an ultimate priority for the race, then the Old Rocktopi must have provided for its use. She doubted the silverbugs were programmed to destroy their masters, no matter what the situation. Most likely, the orb had to be set off by a rocktopi.
If death was preferable to the enemy and if the orb had been kept functional for this long, than the Old Rocktopi intended its eventual use — which meant there had to be simple instructions. It was only logical. The Old Rocktopi had, after all, predicted the collapse of language, which explained the simplistic messages carved in the Picture Cavern and throughout the tunnel complex. That meant that the orb's instructions were likely as simple.
She looked over the control panel. Several glassy squares sat blank; she assumed them to be video screens of some sort. It was doubtful they could still function. The control panel's polished surface gleamed at her with its hidden knowledge.
The answer had to be here, but where?
Chapter Forty-six
Connell sat motionless in his hiding place. He stared out at Kayla Meyers, trying to figure out just what the hell she was doing there. Logic checked his initial urge to call out to her; she shouldn't be in the tunnels at all. He was the only one from EarthCore who had worked with Kayla. No one else in the company even knew of her, and he'd never informed her of the Wah Wah location.
He knew better than anyone that she was capable of anything. Suspicion filled him, as did fear. She was wearing a KoolSuit. He wondered if she'd stolen it, or killed someone to get it. Web gear thick with ammo magazines and equipment covered her chest. She held a machine gun he didn't recognize. A frown crossed Kayla's face as she fiddled with the Marco/Polo controls. She turned slightly, sweeping the area in front of her with the device. Connell realized that she was either using that device to rescue people — or using it to hunt them down. She shook the device, then looked around at the massive ship, at the cavern walls, at the ceiling, her frown turning to tangible anger. She stuffed the Marco/Polo unit in her belt and pulled out another gadget. Connell squinted, trying to see what she was doing. After a few seconds, he recognized the device; a chill went through his body.
She held Angus's map screen.
There was only one way she could possess the map computer — by forcibly taking it from Angus. The little bastard would never give it to her, except, perhaps, at gunpoint. Kayla was here on business, business of her own making, business definitely not in the best interest of EarthCore or its surviving employees.
He quietly slipped his head back into the bubble-room, indicating with a finger to his lips for O'Doyle to stay quiet.
"More rocktopi out there?” Lybrand asked wearily, her voice a husky whisper.
Connell was surprised to see her conscious. She looked weak and pale, like cooked spaghetti left lying in the sink. “Worse,” Connell said in a hushed voice. “An ex-NSA agent named Kayla Meyers. I think she may have killed Angus."
"I like her already,” O'Doyle said.
"I don't know what she's doing here, but she's very dangerous. If she killed Angus, she'd kill all of us in a heartbeat."
"Why would she want to kill us?” O'Doyle asked.
"I have no idea.” Connell didn't know what she wanted, but he did know one thing — whatever her game, Kayla Meyers played for keeps.
It was almost like looking at one of those three-dimensional pictures, the kind with the wavy lines and seemingly abstract patterns, and suddenly seeing the image magically appear on the page.
"I'll say this for them,” Veronica said quietly. “At least they're consistent."
Pictures etched right into the platinum blanketed the cathedral room's walls. She immediately recognized an etching of the control panel, and what appeared to be instructions for lowering the orb. Even for the self-destruction of an entire race, the Old Rocktopi relied on simple pictures.
She didn't know much about rocktopi communication, but she knew that of her own species. Without some central cultural reference, such as television or radio, human languages fractured, split and mutated into countless regional dialects. Language dilution could happen so quickly that over only a century someone who spoke the original language couldn't understand the new form.
Veronica could only imagine how much a language could change over the course of eleven thousand years. Even if the rocktopi only changed a single word every century, by now 110 words would have changed, perhaps even making the original instructions completely unworkable. After all, blowing up the entire mountain wasn't exactly something they could practice to stay sharp.
The logical answer to this likely problem? Put the instructions in picture form. Simple pictures could provide the rocktopi with a method for self-destruction should their enemy finally arrive. That concept explained the Picture Cavern. The carvings there were instructional, filled with the one message the rocktopi understood all too well — if it comes from the surface, kill it.
Now it was their turn to die.
She looked up at the walls, scanning the instructions. At the top were images of the spiky, wasp-like enemy ships, as well as pictures of some new form she'd never seen before. She didn't recognize it, but it appeared to be a bipedal creature covered with spines. It was long and slender, not even remotely humanoid, with one very long arm that reached forward, ending with what could only be a gun of some sort. She couldn't make out anything resembling a head.
She knew she was looking at the rocktopi's ancient enemy.
Below those pictures were images of the enemy moving into the tunnels. Below that — step-by-step picture instructions for detonating the doomsday device.
The etching's message made perfect sense — if the enemy enters the tunnels, blow up everything. She suddenly admired the rocktopi culture; warriors to the last, so intent on avoiding capture they would bring about their own extinction, practice the ultimate form of euthanasia. But it was the Old Rocktopi she admired, not the current bastardized genetic rejects that mindlessly slaughtered everything in sight.
It was funny to think that this race that once traveled amongst the stars and had the power to move mountains now communicated at a level of primitive humans. She wondered if the same fate lay in store for her own race. Perhaps in the end, the very end, mankind would be left with nothing more than crude pictures.
Taking a deep breath, she examined the instructions.