Existence (96 page)

Ben’s image shook its head.

“Now for the really bad news. We traced that whole ‘rights for ersatz aliens’ campaign to a seed-meme that was released five years ago by an old friend of ours. Courier of Caution!

“I know this may be a shock. After all, his people sent him out, along with millions of copies, in order to alert other races! And that aim was probably sincere. But we’ve now verified. His worldstone capsule contains embedded corruptions—viral code that’s woven into its very crystalline structure! Courier’s people thought they were dispatching clean ambassadors. But by adopting the fomites’ technology, they became partners in the infection.

“I tell you, these things are insidious. Their array of tricks is uncanny!”

Gerald exhaled heavily. Genady had already explained these suspicions, before the
ibn Battuta
left Earth orbit. One reason for bringing a copy of Courier along had been to observe the entity in isolation. Gerald muttered.

“Come on, Ben, I know all this. You were about to explain a new development. Something having to do with Tor Povlov’s discovery?”

This message from Flannery wasn’t semisentient—it couldn’t respond to questions. Still, his anthropologist friend finally got to the point.

“We do have some advantages, though. Any alliance among these fomites will always be fragile. And the present coalition seems to have cracked when we showed them images from the asteroid!

“They know we’ll be getting a lot of additional voices, soon. A big supply of new crystal competitors to question. So many, we can afford to dump any uncooperative artifacts into a hole and forget about them. Because of this, a couple of our current samples—including your old Havana Artifact—are already backstabbing each other, talking about cutting a deal.”

Gerald nodded. Okay, this was good news … so long as Ben and the others remained careful. The ancient space viruses came packed with tricks that had evolved into their molecular structure, across eons. This new stage in the battle of wits—threatening them with new rivals—might serve to peel back another layer or two. But only till the damned things adapted again.

Then it would be back to the long, slow slog. Figuring out how to step a clear and safe path through the
Minefield of Existence
.

*   *   *

The second message in his priority queue was from Akana Hideoshi and the team managing Project Look-See. Akana started by congratulating Gerald, Jenny, Ika, and Hiram for their successful operation. Nearly all of the sixty-four sailcraft they launched were now on course. Only one probe had been lost so far, to an accident with tangled shrouds, with no way to recover. Well, this was a learning experience, adapting alien techniques to achieve a different goal. One chosen by humans, not interstellar parasites.

Gerald tried not to think about the crew of that one failed capsule—simulated copies of living human minds, who must now adjust to failure, drifting in space forever with nothing to do but look inward, making the best of simulated reality.

Isn’t that the fate of 99.99-and-so-on percent of crystals that get cast outward?

Still, he shivered at the thought. Death seemed preferable … and so each capsule came equipped with a voluntary self-destruct. Something never seen in alien probes.

As for the other sixty-three, Akana reported that all were proceeding according to plan. From now on, the Donaldson-Chang Telescope—remote controlled from Earth—would occasionally swing to fire a discreet propulsive pulse, secretly helping push each sail outward, targeted for a special zone, a unique region between the orbits of Uranus and Neptune.

It’s a lot of trouble for a simple experiment. One of many we must try. Each offering a small chance of getting what we want.

What we need.

Information. About the current state of the galaxy.

*   *   *

Saved till last, Gerald opened a high quality, semisentient message, again with an Artifact Institute logo. Only this one came from Emily Tang.

Bursting into vreality above his desk, she still looked as energetic as a teenager, with unabated verve. Emily’s almost-palpable 3-D presence leaned toward Gerald, as if sharing his breath. The way she used to during that first crystal-gathering mission, so long ago.

“Gerald!”
her image uttered in a low voice, almost a whisper, her eyes meeting his.

“Have you been following Tor Povlov’s reports? The ancient mummies and all that? Isn’t it amazing? Especially the Mother Probe! An alien machine that built LIVING colonists from a software recipe, in order to settle them on a new world. You know, the ones that were killed before they could inhabit Earth?”

Caught up in her enthusiasm, Gerald nodded, even knowing that the recording was many hours old. She had been like this during the mission, two decades ago, refusing to accept Gerald’s “inclination” excuses, till at last he agreed they’d be lovers, all the way past Mars and back again.

“Yes, Emily, I was as amazed as anybody,” Gerald sighed. “A tragedy. Except, if those colonists succeeded, our species never would’ve evolved.”

The real Emily Tang could only view his comment hours from now. But the semisent had enough built-in response variability to answer him, with a grin that combined indulgence and impatient whimsy.

“Irrelevant! Immaterial. What matters is the technology, Gerald. When you’re out there, grab everything! The artificial wombs that made the colonists. The genetic manipulation equipment. Anything that might still hold data or software. And mummies, too. Bring home lots of mummies!”

Gerald nodded reflexively. Naturally, all of that was included in his recent mission orders. Retrieve whatever Tor Povlov and her partner couldn’t cram aboard their little exploration craft. All those alien technologies might open doorways for humanity. Moreover, they were
so
old—presumably they came unpolluted by the fomite plague.…

Still … was Emily seriously thinking that Earthlings might use the Mother Probe’s method? Say, to send out seeder ships and try colonizing the galaxy? Every indication—on the Rosetta Wall and especially the fate of the Mother Probe itself—suggested that the approach belonged to an older era. An age of big, naive hopes. The tactic was ornate, cumbersome, and unlikely to work, nowadays.

But then, Emily already knew all that.

“This isn’t about us sending interstellar motherships to make colonists of our own, is it?” Gerald guessed aloud. “I’ll bet you have something entirely different in mind, yes? Some
new
way to use the Mother’s breeder science. Something no one else has thought of?”

It might not be Emily in person, but the emulation was good. Its conversation routines adapted seamlessly. The familiar face, now a bit more lined, with a hint of gray, was still luminous with insatiable lust for the new, the strange.

“That’s exactly right, Gerald, you clever boy.”

Almost, he could smell her minty fragrance as she leaned closer.

“I just had a wonderful idea!”

THE LONELY SKY

Lurker Challenge Number Twelve

Ever since this series of “challenges to ET lurkers” was first broadcast into space, way back in the twentieth century, people have commented and written in with alternatives—things the original authors missed. Most seem obscure or unlikely. But this next one keeps popping up, so we’ll include it in the main list.

Okay you lurkers, suppose you’ve monitored us—and the reason you haven’t answered is that
you don’t think organic beings are worthy. You are waiting to talk to Earth-born artificial intelligences.

*   *   *

Well then, please examine the signature tags on this version of the challenge message. Check it against the public keys embedded in this asterisk * and verify that several fully autonomous AIs, who have complete citizenship in our civilization, have added their names. Click on them and get their affirmations.

You may not approve of our mixed civilization, but that hardly matters. If this was your reason for refusing contact the first time, then it is no longer valid. Period.

85.

A BESTIARY

Perched upon the planetoid’s southern pole, a marker buoy now pulsed both visible light and radar—a beacon to help follow-up expeditions find the archaeological discovery of the century. Aboard the
Warren Kimbel,
ancient treasures filled the holds and central corridor, leaving scant room for crewmembers to worm their way past.

Fortunately, both Gavin and I can remove our legs in weightlessness. And we’re well adapted to save consumables by cool-sleeping most of our way home.

In the quest to free up space, everything that could be spared was jettisoned. Piles of abandoned gear littered the nearby asteroid, including all the faithful worker drones. Perhaps later visitors could use them.

And still we haven’t enough fuel or space to take more than a fraction. A sampling.

From some unbidden corner of whimsy:

A hundred crystals, sealed from light.

Some FACR parts to analyze.

Mummies, holos, robot fighters …

… and with all that, you want fries?

Departure had been delayed as Tor and Gavin spent a full day swapping some items of cargo for one complete colonist brooding tank. A last minute urgent request from Earth, though Tor couldn’t imagine how the antediluvian machinery would ever be useful to anybody.
Even if we learn to make living creatures from raw chemicals, what difference will that make? We already have Neanderthals and mammoths. Does somebody plan to resurrect dinosaurs?

If so, will it be the cliché-irony of the millennium?

One thing she knew, from studying the chiseled underground wall—humanity wasn’t going to dispatch its own versions of the Mother Probe. Not any time soon. Not without knowing a lot more about what was going on out there.

Well, someone will explain why they need it when—and if—we make it home.

Gavin floated into the dimly lit control room. “All sealed up, Tor,” he reported. “Two months in orbit haven’t done the engines any harm.
Warren
can maneuver whenever you like.”

Gavin’s supple, plastiskin face was somber, his voice subdued. She touched her partner’s glossy hand. “Thanks, Gavin. You know, I’ve noticed…”

His eyes lifted and met hers.

“Noticed what, Tor?”

“Oh, nothing really.” She shook her head, deciding not to comment on the changes … a new maturity. A grown-up sadness. “I just want you to know—that I think you’ve done a wonderful job. I’m proud to have you as my partner.”

Gavin turned his gaze away, momentarily, and shrugged. “We all do what we have to.…” he began, then paused. He looked back at her.

“Same here, Tor. I feel the same way.”

Gavin turned and leaped for the hatch, swinging arm-over-arm to negotiate the cargo-maze, briefly resembling the apes who were co-ancestors of his mind. Then Tor was alone again in the darkened control room.

She surveyed scores of displays, screens, and readouts representing half-sapient organs of the spaceship … its ganglia, nerve bundles, and sensors, all converging to this room, to her. With some of them plugged even deeper—directly into her cyborg body and brain.

“Astrogation plot completed,”
the pilot announced.
“Ship’s status triple-checked and nominal. Ready to initiate thrust and leave orbit.”

“Proceed,” she said.

The screens ran through a brief countdown, followed by distant rumbling. Soon, a faint sensation of weight began to build, like the soft pull they had felt upon the ruined planetoid. The shattered Mother Probe and her replication yards began to move beneath the
Warren Kimbel
. Tor watched the twisted ruins fall away and behind her ship, till only the beacon still glimmered through a deathly, star-lit stillness.

An indicator pulsed to one side of the instrument board.
Incoming Mail.
Tor clicked a tooth to re-enter the inner world of her percept, allowing the message to appear before her. It was a note from
The Universe.
The editors were enthusiastic over her book on interstellar probes. Small wonder, with her current notoriety. They predicted confidently that it could be the best read piece in the solar system, this year.

The solar system? Aren’t they getting carried away? We’ve barely landed on Mars and poked at the belt. Just twelve babies have been born off-Earth, and they can’t read yet.

Still, it was satisfying to be a journalist again. Refining the book would help her pass the long watches, between cool-naps.

Enjoy solitude while it lasts,
she told herself
. On Earth, I’ll be immersed again in smart-mobs and hot news! Birdwoman and her pals will swamp me with long lists of bizarre correlations and supposed conspiracies that I MUST attend to, because one percent of them might actually matter. While the rest deal with things only auties care about—like suspicious changes in the flicker rate of LED bulbs, or disturbing new patterns in the cedar shavings that are collected by the latest models of pencil sharpener.

Yet, Tor actually found herself looking forward to rejoining that world. A civilization more varied than the one she had been born into, and getting more so, all the time. One with a plenitude of peering eyes to catch mistakes and unabashed voices, free to cry out warnings. One that just might spot the traps that caught every other promising race of sapients, in this spiral arm.

Now she and Gavin were bringing home more grist for that frenetic mill.

What will people do with all this knowledge?
she wondered.
Will we be capable of imagining a correct course of action? And suppose someone suggests a plausible way out. Will our vaunted individualism and undisciplined diversity—the wellspring of our creativity—prevent us from implementing it?