Polaris (7 page)

“You're talking about holodrama.”

“I'm talking about a substantial portion of broadcast arts over the last few thousand years. Most of it, or at least much of it, was packaged
and forwarded to orbitals and ships and everything else. It's all out there. You want to hear Paqua Tori, we can get her for you.”

“Who's Paqua Tori?”

“The hottest comedienne on Toxicon during the Bolerian Age. I've heard her. She's actually pretty funny.”

“Does she speak Standard?”

“Not hardly. But we can do translations, and keep her voice and mannerisms.”

“Tastes change,” I said. “I doubt there'll ever be a wide audience for antique comedy. Or drama, or whatever.”

“Sophocles still plays.” He was all smiles. “As soon as we get this
Polaris
business taken care of, we'll look into some antenna enhancement for
Belle.
”

Antiquities are . . . remnants of history which have casually escaped the shipwreck of time.

—Francis Bacon
The Advancement of Learning

We received our invitations to the banquet and auction the day after I spoke with Windy. Later in the week, she called again.
“Chase, I wanted to let you know we've put together a reception tomorrow evening. There'll be some VIPs on the premises.”

“Okay.”

“At eight. We'd like you and Alex to come and be our guests. You could look over the stock at the same time.”

“That's very kind of you.” Alex liked events. Especially something like this. It meant free food and drinks. And he'd inevitably come away with a new client or two. “Thanks, Windy,” I said. “I'll have to check with the boss, but I suspect we'll be there.”

Then she surprised me.
“Good. Something like this wouldn't be complete without Rainbow. Come fifteen, twenty minutes early, okay? I'll meet you in my office. And by the way, I'll need your birth date. And Alex's.”

“Why?”

“Security.”

“Security?”

“Yes.”

“You think we might try to steal the artifacts?”

“Of course not.”
She arched an eyebrow.
“You wouldn't, would you?”
And then a grin.
“No. It has nothing to do with that. But I can't talk about it.”

“Why not?”

The eyebrow went up again.
“I can't tell you that, either.”

The
Polaris,
of course, was old news. It had happened long before I'd been born, and the story had an unreal aura about it. It almost suggested the existence of a supernatural power out there somewhere, something capable of invading a sealed ship before an alarm could be sent. Something able to shut down the AI. A force that stole humans for purposes of its own. It sounded too much like a fable, like something that had happened outside history. I had no more idea what might have occurred on board than anyone else did. But because the events as reported seemed to defy explanation, I was convinced that the report was in some way simply
wrong.
That something had been left out. Or added in. Don't ask me what.

I'd done some boning up on the incident after Windy told me about the auction. Aside from the disappearance of the people inside, there was something else that was very odd. When Miguel Alvarez went on board, the AI was not operating. The
Polaris
had sustained no damage, hyperlight communications worked fine, and all systems were functional, except that the AI was down. It appeared, Alvarez testified during the hearings, that it had simply been turned off. Tests indicated it had stopped functioning within minutes after that last transmission had been sent.
Departure imminent.

Alex had also become interested. Usually, his juices only got flowing when there was money to be made. But the
Polaris
was something different. He commented that shutting down the AI eliminated the sole witness the investigators might have had. He wanted to know how one did that. How did you turn off an AI?

“The easiest way,” I said, “is simply to tell it to shut itself off.”

“You can do that?”

“Sure. It's done all the time. The AI records everything that happens on the bridge, in storage, and in the engine compartment. And maybe one or two other areas. If you want to have a conversation on the bridge, but you don't want a record kept, you tell it to shut down.”

“How do you turn it back on?”

“Sometimes there's a key word. Sometimes a switch.” We were standing on the porch outside the Rainbow office, which was located on the ground floor of Alex's country house. It was raining, a cold, driving rain that beat against the trees. “But that's not what happened on the
Polaris.
”

“How do you know?”

“If you tell an AI to deactivate, it retains a record of having received the direction. When the
Polaris
AI was turned back on, a few minutes after Alvarez had boarded, it recalled no such instruction. That means somebody disconnected it manually.”

“Is there any other possibility you can think of? Anything that might account for the shutdown?”

“A power failure would do it. Ships are required to have backup power sources, but those regs aren't enforced now, and probably weren't enforced in 1365. But we know nothing like that happened, because the
Polaris
was still powered up when the
Peronovski
reached her.”

“So how do you explain it?”

“Somebody physically turned it off. Disconnected one of the circuits. Then he, or she, must have reconnected it later, because everything was where it should be when the
Peronovski
found them.”

“You're telling me that if they reconnect, that doesn't start up the AI automatically?”

“No. You have to use the enabling switch.”

“Why would an alien force go to the trouble to do that?”

“Well, the theory about the alien force is that it just threw up a field of some sort, and that shut her down.”

“Is that possible?”

“I guess
anything's
possible. If you have the technology.”

After locating the
Polaris,
the
Peronovski
had stayed in the area three days but found nothing. A salvage vessel arrived several weeks later and
brought the
Polaris
home. After an intensive examination produced no explanation, Survey mothballed her, pending future investigations. In 1368, the ship was sold to the Evergreen Foundation. They changed its name to the
Sheila Clermo.

I talked with Sabol Kassem, who'd made a study of the case. Kassem was at Traeger University in the Sunrise Islands. He'd done his doctoral thesis on the
Polaris.

“According to the archives,” he told me, “people riding the
Clermo
were ‘uncomfortable' aboard her. Didn't sleep well. Heard voices. There were reports of restless electronics, as if Madeleine English and her passengers were somehow trapped inside the control units. Marion Horn rode on the ship while he was in the process of making his architectural reputation, and he swore he always had the feeling he was being watched.
‘By something in pain.'
And he added,
‘I know how that sounds.'
” Kassem was seated on a bench in front of a marble facade, on which was engraved
TRUTH
,
WISDOM
,
COMPASSION
. He looked amused. “The most famous—or outrageous—claim came from Evert Cloud, a merchandising king who was one of Evergreen's top contributors. Cloud claimed to have seen a phantasmic Chek Boland standing by the lander. According to Cloud, the spectre pleaded with him to help it escape from the
Polaris.
”

When I passed all that on to Alex, he was delighted. “Great stories,” he said. “They'll do nothing but enhance the value of the artifacts.”

Sheila Clermo, by the way, was the daughter of McKinley Clermo, the longtime guiding force behind Evergreen's environmental efforts. She died at fourteen in a skiing accident.

Jacob put together a pictorial history of Maddy English. Here was Madeleine at age six, with ice cream and a tricycle. And at thirteen, standing with her eighth-grade class in the doorway of their school. First boyfriend. First pair of skis. Maddy at eighteen, playing chess in what appeared to be a tournament. Jacob found a partial recording of
Desperado,
in which, during high school, she played Tabitha, who loved, alas, too well.

He showed me Maddy at flight school. And at Ko-Li, where she qualified for superluminals. There were dozens of pictures of her certification, standing proudly with her parents (she looked just like her mother),
celebrating with the other graduates, gazing over the training station just before her final departure.

I knew the drill pretty well. I'd been through Ko-Li myself, and, though it has evolved and adjusted during the seventy-odd years since it counted Maddy among its graduates, it is still, in all the ways that matter, unchanged. It is the place where you are put to the test and you discover what you can do and who you are.

It's fifteen years since I went through, and I grumbled constantly while I was there. Two-thirds of my class flunked out. I understand that's about average. The instructors could be infuriating. Yet my time there set the standard for me, for what I've come to expect of myself.

I'm not sure any of that makes sense. But had I not graduated from Ko-Li, I would be someone else.

I suspect Maddy felt the same way.

There was a picture of her with a middle-aged man at Ko-Li. They were standing in front of Pasquale Hall, where most of the simulations were conducted.

The man looked very much like Urquhart!

“As an adolescent,”
said Jacob,
“she was something of a problem. She hated school, she was rebellious, she ran off a couple of times, and she got involved with the wrong people. There were some arrests, and her parents could do nothing with her. Urquhart met her when he toured a juvenile incarceration facility. They were already talking about a partial personality reconstruction. He was apparently impressed by something he saw in her, persuaded the authorities he'd take responsibility for her. And he did. It was a bumpy ride, but he got her through high school. A few years later she completed her degree work, and eventually he got her the appointment to Ko-Li.”

He ran a clip. Maddy on a ship's bridge being interviewed for a show to be presented at the Berringer Air & Space Museum:
“I owe everything to him,”
she said.
“Had he not come forward, God knows what would have happened to me.”

The Department of Planetary Survey and Astronomical Research was a semiautonomous agency, one-quarter supported by the government and
the rest by private donation. In an age when disease was rare, the great majority of kids had two parents, and everybody ate well, there were few charities for those who enjoyed helping out, which seems to be a substantial fraction of the population. Makes me hopeful for the future when I think about it. But the point is that social conditions meant there was lots of money available for kids' athletic associations and research organizations. Of those, none was quite as visible or romantic as Survey, with its missions into unexplored territory. There are tens of thousands of stars in the Veiled Lady alone, enough to keep us busy well into the future. And, if the history of the last few thousand years is any indication, we'll probably keep at it indefinitely. It's always been an effort that engages the imagination, and you never really know what you might find. Maybe even Aurelia, the legendary lost civilization.

Survey was controlled by a board of directors representing the interests of a dozen political committees and the academic community and a few well-heeled contributors. The chairman, like the director, was a political appointee, rotated out every two years. He, or she, had a nominal scientific background but was primarily a political animal.

Survey's administrative offices occupied six prime acres on the north side of the capital, along the banks of the Narakobo. Its operational center was located halfway across the continent, but it was in administration that policy decisions were made, where the missions were approved, and the choices taken as to where they would go. It was where technical personnel were recruited to man the starships and researchers came to defend their proposals for missions. There was also a public information branch. The latter was the unit Windy worked for, the people who were running the auction.

Survey had moved its headquarters about three years earlier from a battered stone building in center city to its current exclusive domain. Alex liked to think it had something to do with a resurgence of interest in heritage, sparked by his work on the Christopher Sim discoveries; but the truth was that a different political party had come to power, promises had been made, and real estate is always a good showpiece. But I'd never tell him that.

As requested, we showed up fifteen minutes early and were conducted into Windy's office by a human being rather than the avatar that usually got the assignment if you weren't somebody they especially cared about. Windy was in a white-and-gold evening gown.

I should comment that Alex always knew how to dress for these occasions, and—if I may modestly say—I looked pretty good myself. Black off-the-shoulder silk, stiletto heels, and just enough exposure to excite comment.

I got a knowing smile from Windy, who made a crack about the hunting available that night. Then she was all innocent modesty while Alex fondled her with his eyes and told her how lovely she looked.

The office was illuminated by a single desk lamp. She might have turned up the lights, but she didn't. Everybody looks more exotic when you can't see too well. “Who gets the proceeds?” Alex asked, when we'd settled into chairs. “From the auction?”

“Not us,” she said.

“Why not? Where's it go?”

“Survey is funded by the Council.”

“I understand that. But the
Polaris
was Survey's baby. It's your equipment. Your mission. Anyhow, the bulk of the funding comes from private sources.”