Furious Gulf Read Free Page A

are sheltered against the Mass Eater’s radiant storm and so should be well preserved.
    By its nature we\you cannot know what this hidden information is.
    Why “by its nature”?
    There are many theories.
    Precisely. Does it not seem curious that something in our\your makeup makes it somehow impossible for us\you to know what
     these humans carry? That such knowledge is blocked for us? A curious aspect of our deep programming.
    May
carry. Such ancient records are suspect.
    We\You cannot risk disbelieving them.
    Long ago the philosopher [
|
~] resolved such questions. We\You are imprisoned within our perception-space. There will always remain matters you\we cannot
     know.
    But if these matters affect ourselves? Disquieting.
    Living with ambiguity is the nature of high intelligence. Still, to lessen uncertainty we\you should exterminate the remaining
     bands.
    And lose their information?
    Very well—archive them first. I now point to this latest incursion— already it nears True Center.
    There may be risks in erasing them.
    Nonsense. You\We have destroyed many such expeditions before.
    First, let scouts find them accurately. The usual primate-hunter units will track them, perhaps inflict minor damage—one must
     give such lower forms some reward structure, remember.
    You/We advocate delay?
    No—cautious action. Remember that higher forms than us will judge our\your actions. Prudence demands care. Earlier events
     involving these primates, on two separate planets, have pointed toward some significant yet poorly defined role they play.
     They may carry information—and what are they, but information? Indeed, what are we?—which can bring the attentions of minds
     above ours.
    Very well, caution. But how?
    A trap.

ONE
Techno-Nomads
    T oby had barely gotten back inside the air lock and was shedding his suit when Cermo showed up. Toby wore nothing but shorts
     under his vacuum suit, and the ship felt colder than outside. He rummaged in his locker for his overalls, shivering, and Cermo
     said, “Where you been?”
    “Where’s it look?”
    The big man towered over Toby. Cermo had been called Cermo-the-Slow in years past, but now was leaner and quicker. A broad
     grin seemed to divide his face in half with delighted anticipation. “Heard all the ruckus. Cap’n found us somethin’ to eat,
     right?”
    “We’ll see.”
    “Doesn’t change anything for you, though,” Cermo said with a sly chuckle. He was a big man with a soft-eyed, mirthful face,
     so the chuckle carried no malice.
    “What’s that mean?”
    “You’re on maintenance detail today.”
    “So? Okay, I’ll check the biotanks, the usual.”
    “Today’s not usual.” Again the sly grin.
    “What’s wrong?”
    “Sewage seals broke.”
    “
Again?
No fair! They went out
last
time I was on maintenance, too.”
    “Well then, you’re an expert.” Cermo handed Toby a mop. “Apply your know-how.”
    The seals were always popping, because the pressure regulators had to be tuned just exactly right. Human waste was a vital
     ingredient in the biotanks. It had to be pressurized, filtered, and the final product flattened into squishy mats—which the
     farm teams spread around among the big bowl-shaped crop zones. The
Argo
was a long-voyage ship, designed to keep every drop of water, every sigh of air sealed tight inside its skin.
    Easy to understand, hard to do. Most of the
Argo
crew were relatives, all that remained of Family Bishop. They came from Snowglade, a bleak world Toby remembered rather fondly.
     Toby was of the youngest generation of Family Bishop. That gave him the flexibility of being fresh and green, but the sour
     fact of the matter was that Bishops had few skills to help them run the
Argo
.
    All Families had been techno-nomads, learning just enough to survive while they were on the move. Always running, dodging,
     staying ahead of mechs. Not that most mechs paid them any special attention. Humans at Galactic Center were more like rats
     in the